The question fell into the silence of an office where Barbieri, the proprietor, was writing at a desk.
"Mr. St. Ives? I will send for him. Julian,"—to a boy, who in the doorway was burying his naked feet in the fine white marble dust like snow,—"Mr. St. Ives,—a lady."
"I have come to see the new machine."
"Ah, the new machine? It is very wonderful; it not only points the marble, but cuts it, following the model; and no man touches it. Never anything like it in this country; in France, yes, there is something of the sort, but not perfect like this one."
"As wonderful as that?"
"Si, si,—yes, madam, wonderful."
"And will you show me how it works? I want to see it in operation."
"In operation? Ah, I regret, but to-day, madam, to-day is Saturday; there is no power, no electricity, you understand, no men."
"Then why did he have me come?" she murmured, and caught her lip between her teeth, a trick with her when angry or perplexed.
"Why did you have me come?" she said, addressing the inventor, who with impetuous strides was advancing to meet her.