“The Signora willa be pleased with breakfast. It is Americana breakfast, made specialmente for Signora and the young ladies—the chicken broila—Signora.”
“The man will drive me mad,” cried Miss Campbell rushing down stairs with veils flying, her hand bag in one hand, her coat in the other, followed by the girls who had been struggling to pack their suitcases and get away as soon as possible.
At the bottom of the steps, they met Lucia, smiling and fresh in spite of her dissipations of the day before.
“The ladies will please enter for breakfast,” she said.
Back of them came Pasquale without any suitcase at all.
“On the terrace, Signora. Ah, the terrace, it is bella, bella, in the morning. Sacremen—you will see her on a clear day. Ah, madama, I entreata you to step forth on the terrace.”
Pasquale and Lucia stood in the most theatrical attitudes imaginable, their hands outstretched, exactly like two opera singers when they had reached the closing notes of a grand duetto.
“Ah, Signora, thisa gooda breakfast,—chicken broila—questa bella vista—”
“Good heavens, the man is mad. They are both perfectly mad,” cried poor Miss Campbell rushing to the terrace and almost into the arms of—Oh, horror of horrors! Oh, unspeakable disgrace! John James Stone, who actually held her imprisoned in his iron embrace and looked down into her face with an expression so tender that Nancy and Mary were obliged to retire into the hall for a moment where they fell on each other’s necks and laughed immoderately.
“Release me, sir! How dare you?” cried the excited little woman, looking around to see if anyone else had been a witness of this disgraceful encounter.