"When was your brother of age?"
"Last Christmas Eve. Don't you remember what I told you at the school of design that day?"
"And when is your birthday, Isola?"
"I am sure I don't know, but somewhere about Midsummer. They never told Conny when his was, but he knew it somehow. Come, he is clever now, Clara, though you don't think I am. Isn't he now? Tell the truth."
"I am thinking of far more important matters than your rude brother's ability. Whence did you come to England and when?"
This was quite a shot in the dark. But I had long suspected that they were of Southern race.
"I am sure I don't know. I was quite a child at the time, and the subject has been interdicted; but I think we came from Italy, and at least ten years ago."
"And your brother speaks Italian more readily than English. Can you tell me anything more?"
"Nothing. Only I know that old Cora is a Corsican: she boasts of it every night, when she comes to see me in bed, although she has been forbidden. But what does she care--she asks--for this dirty little English island? And she sits by my bed, and sings droning songs, which I hardly understand; but she says they are beautiful nannas."
How my heart was beating, at every simple sentence. None of this had I heard before, because she durst not tell it.