“What did the padrone say?” cried Frances, pricking up her ears.
“Signorina, it was to my wife I was speaking,” said Domenico.
“That I understand; but I wish to know as well. Was papa expecting a visit? What did he say?”
“The padrone himself will tell the signorina,” said Domenico, “all that is intended for her. Some things are for the servants, some for the family; Mariuccia knows what I mean.”
“You are an ass, ’Menico,” said his wife, calmly. “Why shouldn’t the dear child know? It is nothing to be concerned about, my soul—only that the padrone does not receive, and again that he does not receive, and that he never receives. I must repeat this till the Ave Maria, if necessary, till the strangers accept it and go away.”
“Are these special orders?” said Frances, “or has it always been so? I don’t think that it has always been so.”
Domenico had gone out while his wife was speaking, with a half-threatening and wholly disapproving look, as if he would not involve himself in the responsibility which Mariuccia had taken upon her.
“Carina, don’t trouble yourself about it. It has always been so in the spirit, if not in the letter,” said Mariuccia. “Figure to yourself Domenico or me letting in any one, any one that chose to come, to disturb the signor padrone! That would be impossible. It appears, however, that there is some one down there in the hotels to whom the padrone has a great objection, greater than to the others. It is no secret, nothing to trouble you. But ’Menico, though he is a good man, is not very wise. Che! you know that as well as I.”
“And what will you do if this gentleman will not pay any attention—if he comes in all the same? The English don’t understand what it means when you say you do not receive. You must say he is not in; he has gone out; he is not at home.”
“Che! che! che!” cried Mariuccia; “little deceiver! But that would be a lie.”