“Go, my dear!” his mother urged. “It is only a civility, and commits you to nothing.”
He went slowly away, knowing well that further appeal was useless. His mother followed him after a moment.
“My gondola!” she said to a servant who was taking off the tablecloth, and went on to an adjoining boudoir where her daughter sat.
“Boys are such a trial!” she said with an impatient sigh, and dropped into a sofa. “Alfonso has, happily, reached the age of reason. Enrico is under good guardianship, or I should tremble for his future, he is so impatient. It is true, Monsignor Scalchi does live longer than we thought he would; but, as I say to Enrico, can I kill Monsignor Scalchi in order that you may be made a canon at once? Wait. He cannot live long. Enrico declares that he will never die. And now Claudio, with his folly!”
“What will he do?” the daughter asked.
“He will do as I command him!” the Marchesa answered sharply. “I only wish, Isabella, that you would be half as resolute with your son. Peppino may go without his dessert this evening. It may make him remember to rise the next time that the mistress of the house leaves the table.”
Scene II.
In a boarding-house, on the Riva degli Schiavoni, a number of tourists, among them some artists, are seated at their one o’clock dinner.
Says a lady, “They say that the old Greek, or Arabic, or Turkish, or Hindu, or Boston Professor whom we met at the Lido last month—you remember him, Mr. James?—well—where did I begin? I’ve lost my nominative case.”
2d Lady. They say that he is dying, poor old man! My gondolier told me this morning that Professor Mora has visited every part of the globe, and knows a thousand languages. He seemed even to doubt if the professor might not have been to the moon. The gondolier evidently looks upon him with wonderment. And as for the professor’s granddaughter, she is one of the marvels of the earth.