"Send for a priest, Ippolita, that is the only chance. But, remember, when they have washed you, they put clothes upon you like these. Ah, but it is worth a girl's while to have silk upon her, and these chains, and these pearls. Corpaccio! there is no Madonna in Padua with such stones as these, nor any bishop either, upon my faith!"
Ippolita shook her beautiful head. "They are not worth the price of all that smelling water," she complained. "Try it, Nannina, before you speak. Seriously, I am very unhappy. Let me tell you something."
"Well?"
"No—come nearer. I'll whisper."
The two heads were very close together. Nannina's eyes became a study—attention, suspicion, justified prophecy, hopefulness; then saucerfuls of sheer surprise to smother every other emotion.
"Ma! Impossibile! And they have never—?"
"Never so much as a finger."
"But what? Are they—? Don't they—?"
Ippolita shrugged, pouting. "Chi lo sa? I tell you, Nannina, I shall go mad in this place."