"You'll excuse me this morning, won't you?" said Roma, rising.
"Certainly. I'm busy, too. So good of you to see me. Trust I've not been de trop. And if it hadn't been for those stupid bills of mine...."
Roma sat down and wrote a letter to one of the strozzini (stranglers), who lend money to ladies on the security of their jewels.
"I wish to sell my jewellery," she wrote, "and if you have any desire to buy it, I shall be glad if you can come to see me for this purpose at four o'clock to-morrow."
"Roma!" cried a fretful voice.
She was sitting in the boudoir, and her aunt was calling to her from the adjoining room. The old lady, who had just finished her toilet, and was redolent of perfume and scented soap, was propped up on pillows between the mirror and her Madonna, with her cat purring on the cushion at the foot of her bed.
"Ah, you do come to me sometimes, don't you?" she said, with her embroidered handkerchief at her lips. "What is this I hear about the carriage and horses? Sold them! It is incredible. I will not believe it unless you tell me so yourself."
"It is quite true, Aunt Betsy. I wanted money for various purposes, and among others to pay my debts," said Roma.
"Goodness! It's true! Give me my salts. There they are—on the card-table beside you.... So it's true! It's really true! You've done some extraordinary things already, miss, but this ... Mercy me! Selling her horses! And she isn't ashamed of it!... I suppose you'll sell your clothes next, or perhaps your jewels."
"That's just what I want to do, Aunt Betsy."