The young Roman smiled.
"Why did the Prime Minister appoint so-and-so?—Donna Roma! Why did he dismiss such-and-such?—Donna Roma! What feminine influence imposed upon the nation this or that?—Donna Roma! Through whom come titles, decorations, honours?—Donna Roma! Who pacifies intractable politicians and makes them the devoted followers of the Ministers?—Donna Roma! Who organises the great charitable committees, collects funds and distributes them?—Donna Roma! Always, always Donna Roma!"
"So the day of the petticoat politician is not over in Italy yet?"
"Over? It will only end with the last trump. But dear Donna Roma is hardly that. With her light play of grace and a whole artillery of love in her lovely eyes, she only intoxicates a great capital and"—with a glance towards the curtained door—"takes captive a great Minister."
"Just that," and the white plumes bobbed up and down.
"Hence she defies conventions, and no one dares to question her actions on her scene of gallantry."
"Drives a pair of thoroughbreds in the Corso every afternoon, and threatens to buy an automobile."
"Has debts enough to sink a ship, but floats through life as if she had never known what it was to be poor."
"And has she?"
The voices from behind the curtained door were louder than usual at that moment, and the young Roman drew his chair closer.