Mrs. Damian held out her delicate hand with its weight of costly rings; Zitli took it reverentially in his brown, slender fingers and bowed again over it.
“This is Zitli-my-friend, is it?” said the old lady. “How do you do, Zitli-my-friend? Are you a good boy?”
Her dark eyes pierced him, Zitli told Gretli afterward, like a sword; never had he encountered such a gaze. He colored high, but met the look bravely.
“As to that, madame, with reverence be it said, it would be necessary to ask the Eternal Father. To be good is my desire, but not yet my accomplishment.”
Mrs. Damian nodded. “Well answered! We may all say the same, Zitli-my-friend. Honor has told me about you; will you and your sister come to see me at my hotel before you go home? Good! You spend the night in Vevay? To-morrow then!”
She gave him a nod of dismissal, curt but kindly; Zitli bowed again and stumped away to join his sisters.
“You allow your little—a—charge—to make acquaintance with the peasantry?” Mrs. Desmond spoke in a tone of airy silver, like that Patricia used in her bad moments.
“I allow—and desire—my little charge to make the acquaintance of good people, wherever she meets them!” Mrs. Damian spoke dryly, with a nod at each clause. “Folly, the sun is in my eyes. Move my chair over yonder, will you?” She indicated a spot at some distance, and with a ceremonious bow to Mrs. Desmond, moved off.
“I should have bitten that woman in another moment!” she explained. “My Professor never liked me to bite in company. This will do! What? Sun here too? Woman, try to have a little sense! What did you bring the parasol for?”
She seated herself, with a sweep of satin draperies, and continued,