They were taking the Villa Picciani, ten miles out; they were coming in December. One asked for advice, for attendance if necessary.
Frascatelle's dark eyes read the sign words of wealth; the woman who did spokeswoman was brown, slender, distinguished, but wrapped in a long cloak; the other dazzlingly fair, younger, black circles under her brilliant blue eyes.
"Would the signor tell them where to procure servants—men and women? They would hire a motor. Was there a nurse, a trained one, available for some time? Lady Blakeney was nervous."
"Lady Blakeney!" Luigi looked at the fair girl curiously. "But, Madame," he spoke French, "will not Madame return for the event to England—to the great physicians there—to her own home?"
"Sir Cyril is away; her ladyship is lonely in England; has a fancy for sunshine and for solitude."
The doctor bowed. "Ah! at such times there are ever fancies, better indulged. Ah! si, always better indulged."
The ladies were coming in December. He would call as required; there were worthy servants to be found. There was one, English.
"No," the elder woman shot out, "all Italian. We want your Italian cooking, Es—Denise and I. We want omelettes, macaroni, to amuse us in our solitude."
"But, sapristi! a strange amusement," said the doctor to himself.
"You will get us reliable servants, signor?" Denise asked.