“Don’t call me Signora,” she said softly. “Call me Fiordelisa, as you did that day at Venice.”
“Tell me how you both like our England.”
The elder woman shrugged her shoulders, elevated her eyebrows, and flung up her hands in boundless admiration.
“Wonderfullissimo!” she exclaimed. “The streets, the long, broad streets, and splendid, splendid shops; the carriages, the fine-dressed people, the smoke, the roar of wheels, the everlasting noise. When I look back, and think of Burano, it is like a dream of quiet; a tranquil world set in the bosom of the waters; a cradle for sleep; life that is half slumber. Here every one is awake.”
“But your London is not beautiful,” said Lisa. “This court is not like Venice. It is liker than your big, noisy streets; but when one looks up the sky is murky and grey—not like the strip of blue above the Calle. If I could live where I could see water from my window—even your dull, dark river—I should be happier; but to be away from the sound and the sight of waters! That was hard even at Milan, which was still Italy.”
“There are places in London where you might live in sight and sound of the river,” said Vansittart. “We cannot offer you anything like your lagoons; we have no mountains like the Friuli range for our sunsets to glorify; but we have a river by which people can live if they like.”
“Not if they like, but if they are rich enough,” argued Lisa. “We asked if we could have a lodging near the river; but the people at the theatre told us such lodgings are dear—they are not for such as us.”
“We will see about that,” said Vansittart; and then he went on more seriously, “I want to make a compact with you and your aunt. I want to come to a clear understanding of what we are to be to each other in the future. Are we to be friends, Lisa?”
“Yes, yes, friends, true friends,” she answered eagerly.
“And you forgive me for—what was done that night?”