“But I can’t talk Italian yet. Though I’m getting on.”
“Perhaps that may be all the better for a beginning and till you grow more accustomed. I’ll make your excuses. And you shall sing after dinner.”
Her face went pale and red.
“Sir William, you believe in me too much. I shall disgrace you.”
“Not you. You’ll rise to the occasion and cover us with glory. You have the courage of six. Now that’s fixed. Come down simply, quietly, naturally, and I won’t say look pretty, because you can’t help that. But be just the simple natural Emma, and all will go well.”
“But, what shall I wear? Oh, I want to be beautiful to do you credit.”
As it was not possible for Sir William to explain that that was the high road to discredit for him, he fell in with her view and after awhile the white satin was chosen. She had never worn it yet, and that was in itself an event to move her. At the end, she hesitated a little.
“Is Mrs. Dickenson ill?” she asked simply, for she knew from him that his real niece had always done the honours. Sir William’s lips tightened.
“Not at all. But I choose that in future my dear Emma shall be hostess at the Palazzo Sessa.”
No more was said. She could not tell whether she were more frightened or glad. Perhaps he meant it as a part of the great campaign of improvement now proceeding. She was to be given the manners of a lady in high society in addition to all else. Wonderful, wonderful! For what dim illustrious future was all this preparation? Surely, surely he must have her marriage to Greville in view. Nothing else could possibly explain it. Then what effort or gratitude could be too much for such amazing generosity? When he was gone she caught up her pen and wrote to Greville. All centred about that.