Olive collected her scattered wits. “If the Signora Contessa would allow me to look,” she said.
The stitches were very large, and her heart sank as she examined them. The poor women had toiled so over this work, stooping over it, straining their tired eyes. “I think we can alter it to your satisfaction, but I must ask you to be indulgent, signora. I will bring it back the day after to-morrow, if that will suit you.” She folded the bodice carefully and wrapped it in the piece of paper she had brought it in, fastening the four corners with pins.
“The skirt goes well?”
“It will do,” the Contessa admitted as she turned away. “Anacleto!”
A slender, dark-eyed youth emerged from the shadows at the far end of the passage, bringing a sound and smell of frying with him. His bare brown arms were floury and he wiped them on his striped cotton apron as he came forward to open the door. He wore a white camellia thrust behind one ear.
“It would be convenient—Signora Manara would be glad if you could pay part of her account,” faltered Olive.
The Contessa stopped short. “I could, but I will not,” she said emphatically. “She does her work too badly.”
The young servant grinned at the girl as she passed out. She was half-way down the stairs when he came out on to the landing and leaned over the banisters.
“Never! Never!” he called down to her. “They never pay anyone. I am leaving to-morrow.”
The white camellia dropped at her feet. She smiled involuntarily as she stooped to gather up the token. “Men are rather dears.”