‘They looks for all the world like the sugar on a bride-cake, miss,’ said Maryanne.
At which Kate laughed, but went on—
‘Those cottages are called châlets, up there among the clouds. Look how green the grass is—like velvet. Oh! Maryanne, shouldn’t you like to live there—to milk the cows in the evening, and have the mountains all round you—nothing but snow-peaks, wherever you turned your eyes?’
Maryanne gave a shudder.
‘Why, miss,’ she said, ‘you’d catch your death of cold!’
‘Wait till Mees Katta see my bella Firenze,’ said old Francesca. ‘There is the snow quite near enough—quite near enough. You zee him on the tops of ze hills.’
‘I never, never shall be able to live in a town. I hate towns,’ said Kate.
‘Ah!’ cried the old woman, ‘my young lady will not always think so. This is pleasant now; but there is no balls, no parties, no croquée on ze mountains! Mees Katta shakes her head; but then the Winter will come, and, oh! how beautiful is Firenze, with all the palaces, and ze people, and processions that pass, and all that is gay! There will be the Opera,’ said Francesca, counting on her fingers, ‘and the Cascine, and the Carnival, and the Veglioni, and the grand Corso with the flowers. Ah! I have seen many young English Mees, I know.’
‘I never could have supposed Francesca would be so stupid,’ cried Kate, returning to the party on the quarter-deck—for this conversation took place in a steamer on the Lake of Lucerne. ‘She does not care for the mountains as much as Maryanne does, even. Maryanne thinks the snow is like sugar on a bride-cake,’ she went on, with a laugh; ‘but Francesca does nothing but rave about Florence, and balls, and operas. As if I cared for such things—and as if we were going there!’
‘But Francesca is quite right, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with hesitation. ‘When the Summer is over, we shall want to settle down again, and see our fellow-creatures; and really, as Francesca has suggested it, we might do a great deal worse. Florence is a very nice place.’