“He has been working very hard.”
“Oh, I see.”
Her voice had softened.
“The Marchesino is coming here to lunch to-morrow.”
“Oh, Madre!”
“Does he bore you? I had to ask him to something after accepting his dinner, Vere.”
“Yes, yes, of course. The Marchese is all right.”
She stood by the door with her bright, expressive eyes fixed on her mother. Her dark hair had been a little roughened by the breeze from Ischia, and stuck up just above the forehead, giving to her face an odd, almost a boyish look.
“What is it, Vere?”
“And when is Monsieur Emile coming? Didn’t he say?”