"You are a Mafiosa," cried the scandalized aunt.
"It is one of Aliandro's sayings. He has lived a life! He often tells me stories."
"Aliandro is a terrible liar," Martel declared. "I fear his adventures are much like his rheumatism."
"You do not exact a reckoning from your enemies in America?" queried
Margherita.
"Oh, we do, but not with quite so much enthusiasm as you do," Blake answered her. "We aren't ordinarily obliged to kill people in order to protect our property, and wives don't go about threatening vengeance when their husbands meet with accidents. The police take care of such things."
"A fine country! It must be so peaceful for old people," ejaculated the aunt.
"We have some outlaws, to be sure, like your notorious Belisario
Cardi—"
"Cardi is but a name," said the girl. "He does not exist."
Intercepting a warning glance from Martel, Blake said no more, and the talk drifted to more agreeable subjects.
But the Count, being possessed of a nervous temperament which called for constant motion, could not long remain inactive, and now, having poured his extravagant devotion into his sweetheart's ears, he rose, saying: