"Clelia? Thusis? Very unusual names—hum-hum!—and nothing else—no family name. Well—well!"
"Oh, there was a family name of sorts. It doesn't matter; we never use it." And she laughed.
It was not what she said—not the sudden charm of her fresh young laughter that surprised me; it was her effortless slipping from French into English—and English more perfect than one expects from even the philologetically versatile Swiss.
"Are you?" I asked curiously.
"What, Mr. O'Ryan?"
"Swiss?"
Thusis laughed and considered me out of her dark-fringed eyes.
"We are Venetians—very far back. In those remote days, I believe, my family had many servants. That, perhaps, is why my sister and I make such good ones—if I may venture to say so. You see we know by inheritance what a good servant ought to be."
The subtle charm of this young girl began to trouble me; her soft, white symmetry, the indolent and youthful grace of her, and the disturbing resemblance between her and my photograph all were making me vaguely uneasy.
"Thusis," I said, "you understand of course that if I am short of servants you'll have to pitch in and help the others."