“In what way?” asked Paul.
“The Duchessa and her parents,” said Christopher, “had taken a house in Devonshire, at Salcombe, as a matter of fact, where I then lived. My mother, being of a hospitable turn of mind, and also of opinion that young men should make themselves generally useful, sent me across the road to enquire of Captain and Mrs. de Courcy if I could be of any assistance to them. I went. I found the Duchessa seated on the veranda on an overturned flower-pot. She was engaged in teaching ‘nap’ to three small boys who had come in from the next door garden, also with hospitable intentions. I found Mrs. de Courcy disentangling silver forks from among her evening frocks; they had been packed among them for safety——”
“Mamma was always under the impression that everybody was going to steal everything,” interjected the Duchessa.
“Captain de Courcy,” went on Christopher, “was extracting tin-tacks from the kitchen coal-scuttle, into which they had been upset by the Duchessa in her frantic questing for playing-cards.”
“And did you,” asked Miss Mason grimly, “assist him?”
“I extracted two tacks,” continued Christopher reminiscently. “Then I heard the Duchessa laugh. Have you ever heard her? I went out on to the veranda. First I looked at her, then I turned another flower-pot upside down and sat upon it. I tried to instruct her in a few of the correct rules of ‘nap.’ She cheated, I remember, abominably. She has, in fact, cheated throughout her life.”
“Indeed, I have not,” said Sara indignantly. There was a dimple at the corner of her mouth.
“You have,” said Christopher calmly. “You have cheated the Fates every time they dealt the cards of fortune against you. It’s a trick many of us would give our eyes to learn. They deal her black cards, heigh presto! the Duchessa has changed them to red ones. They deal her low dull cards—the Duchessa holds aces and Kings, particularly,” ended Christopher severely, “Kings!”
“Christopher,” said Sara sweetly, “is given to exaggeration.” She was first the tiniest bit annoyed. Christopher’s last word savoured somewhat of an accusation of flirting. No woman cares to be accused of that pastime before a man in whom she is feeling—well, certainly more than just a careless interest. Besides, the music Paul had been hearing during the last ten weeks had begun to reach the Duchessa’s ears, though as yet quite faintly. The slight implication of flirting came as a discord to the tune it was playing.
“The late Duca di Corleone might certainly be termed a King,” protested Christopher, “while the Casa di Corleone and the coffers of centesimi are most assuredly many aces.”