"Sakes! dear sakes! Thou'lt spoil thy glory, my lovely dear," cried the other; "but there then, but there then, there's nothing to wail about. Tell me the trouble, tell thy good Nannina!" So she petted her, like a mother her child.
Donna Euforbia stood confused, but dutiful ever. "Has her Majesty any further commands?"
"Grazie, grazie," said her kissing Majesty, "niente!" and so was left alone with all that she held true in Padua.
"Oh, come, Nannina, come and sit with me; come to the window—let us have the air." She led her there. "O lasso!" said she then, and sighed; "how good it is to see thee, child!"
Before the other could let out a "Madonna!" she began her plaint. "They give me no rest, Nannina, no rest at all. Day long, night long, they are at their postures. I am dressed, undressed, put to bed, taken out, fed, watered, like a pet dog. They put me in a bath, they do my hair out every day: to get me up in the morning according to their fancies is an hour and a half's work for three ladies. Figure it!"
"Christian souls!" cried Nannina, "what's the meaning of this? A bath? What, water."
"Full to the brim with water, on the faith of a Catholic. Of course, if this continues I must die."
"Oh, sicuro, sicurissimo!" she agreed. "This is very serious, Ippolita. Eh, let me feel you. Are you ever dry, my poor child?"
"Dry to the touch, Nannina, dry to the touch. But it is within my body I fear it. I must be sodden, dearest."