“Yes. The Marchese does not like it. He is so set on his worm-eaten old tapestries and carved chairs, and he wanted momma to refurnish the palace to match, but not she! Louis Quinze, she said, and Louis Quinze it is, more or less. I tell the Marchese that if he is so fond of the musty Middle Ages he ought to go about in armour himself by rights. But the old sinner is not really a bit romantic.”
It occurred to Olive that the right kind of governess would utter a word in season. “It is not usual for young girls to refer to their stepfathers as you do,” she said drily.
“Wait until you know mine better,” Mamie answered unabashed. “Last night he said your complexion was miraculous. Next thing he’ll try if it comes off. Are you coming to dinner to-night, Edna?”
“Yes, auntie asked us. The—the Prince will be here, won’t he?”
Mamie looked down her nose. “Oh, yes,” she said carelessly. “Your beau will come. People generally do when we ask them. The food is all right, and we have real good music afterwards sometimes. You know Avenel stays in Florence whiles because his brother has a Villa at Settignano. Well, momma guessed she would get him to play here for nothing once. Of course she was willing to pay any money for him really, but she just thought she would try it on. She asked him to dinner with a lot of other people, and made him take her in, though there were two Neapolitan dukes among the guests. The food was first-rate; she had told the cook to do his best, and she really thought the entrée would have made Vitellius sit up. It was perfect. Well, afterwards she asked Avenel to play, and he just smiled and said he could not. Why, she said, he gave a recital the day before for nothing, for a charity, and played the people’s souls out of their bodies, made them act crazy, as he always does. Couldn’t he play for friendship? No, he said, he couldn’t just then because one must be filled with sorrow oneself before one can make others feel, and he inferred that he had no room even for regret. ‘I play Chopin on a biscuit,’ he said.”
“He must be rather a pig,” was Edna’s comment.
“Not a bit of it. Momma said he really had not eaten much; in fact she had noticed that he left a bit of that lovely entrée. Perhaps he is afraid of getting fat. Momma was real mad with him.”
Olive’s cheeks were flushed and her hands trembled as she arranged the cups on the tray. She was thankful for the shelter afforded by the great silver tea-pot. Mamie’s back was turned to her, but Edna seemed desirous of including her in the conversation.
“Have you heard Avenel, Miss Agar?” she asked presently in her gentle, drawling way.
“No. Is he very famous? I have never heard of him as a pianist.”