“No, no, I do not want you to roughen those pretty hands before Beppo arrives,” observed the Countess. Then, all at once, she broke into rapid French: “I am explaining to our little friend that I want her to look her best when Beppo arrives.”
“Beppo?” queried the Count. “But Beppo is not coming, that I know of, before the end of January?”
“Oh yes, he is! He is coming very soon. I heard from him to-day.”
Lily felt surprised, for Cristina had told her that morning that there were no postal deliveries on Sunday at La Solitude.
They all three got up and went back into the drawing-room, and at once the Count walked over to the card-table and, sitting down, started on his Patience again.
“And now what will you do?” said the Countess hesitatingly, turning to Lily.
“I will go into the kitchen, Aunt Cosy, and help Cristina to wash up,” said the girl.
“But take care of those pretty hands!” The warning was uttered very seriously.
Poor Lily! She could not help rather regretting her offer. At home there had been gallons of hot water, nice clean teacloths—everything, in a word, required for the tiresome process known as washing-up. But Cristina simply piled everything into a basin full of tepid water, then she rubbed each plate with a dirty-looking little mop, and finally handed each plate and dish to Lily to dry with what looked like a rather worn old towel!
Suddenly Lily realised that the towel she was using to wipe the plates was the very towel, with a hole in it, with which she had dried herself with such very mixed feelings in the outhouse this morning! It almost made the gently nurtured English girl feel sick; and yet what could she say or do? Cristina evidently saw nothing wrong in it. And it was a fact—to Lily rather a shocking fact—that the plates looked perfectly clean after having been submitted to this disgusting process.