"And you won't leave the Hotel; you promise?"
"Of course, I do. I'll be only too thankful to lie down and keep quiet until it is time to eat. Although I have a headache, I am hungry. I suppose I may eat even though you are out enjoying what would kill me."
"Yes, poor little girl, you may certainly eat. We'll take her back to the Hotel, Maureen, and put her under the care of Victorine, who will let her know when déjeuner is served."
So Henrietta had her way.
Victorine was a dark-eyed Italian girl, who could speak broken English, and promised volubly to see after the signorina, but Mr. O'Brien did not feel thoroughly comfortable as he went off with Maureen and Daisy and Dominic, at leaving this wild creature practically alone.
But Maureen, for once in her life, was selfish. She absolutely forgot Henrietta in the marvels which the great professor poured into her cultured little mind. She listened with awe and wonder.
She was no longer in the country of modern civilisation; she had ceased to be a child of the present day. She was back in the old, old times. She was even with Nero in his unspeakable cruelty—but also in the refinement of this extraordinary being's perfect taste.
She was with the Vestal Virgins. She was under the Arch of Titus. She stood on the banks of the Tiber, that mighty river of ancient times. Her heart thrilled and stood still. Was this narrow turgid stream the mighty fast-flowing river that was known in history, where the great Horatius kept the bridge?
It was some small comfort to the eager little listener when the old professor explained to her how centuries had worked changes and that the river was really a mighty mass of swift-flowing water in the brave days of old.
The learned professor was really charmed with his little companion, and insisted on the entire party coming to lunch with him in his appartement in one of the old palaces.