The Marchesa's dark eyes flashed. The red mouth smiled at him.
"Mais vous êtes tr ... es bien!" She rolled her r's with Italian emphasis.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, my aunt." And, indeed, he only spoke the truth. In a flash he found a valid excuse for his late uncle's dandyism; that somewhat pathetic defiance of age beside his youthful second wife.
"You have well slept?—Had all you needed?" Her French, full of liquid vowel sounds, fell musically on his ears.
"And the 'tub'? Ah! I know the English ways. I say to Beppo: See now!—a cold bath—cold ... cold ...! That is what the English love." She gave a clear, rippling laugh.
"And then you appear—a true Italian! Ma si!" she nodded her head gaily. "A Maramonte—Mon Dieu, I am glad!—without the teeth. You understand?"
"Not quite," McTaggart smiled back, showing a white row as he spoke.
"The English teeth—quel horreur!—that stick out like the wild boar."
The young man laughed outright.
"Oh—we aren't all as bad as that! But Italy is the land of beauty——" he gazed at her—"I am learning that."