Randal advanced—“I fear, Signior Riccabocca, that I am guilty of some want of ceremony.”
“To dispense with ceremony is the most delicate mode of conferring a compliment,” replied the urbane Italian, as he recovered from his first surprise at Randal’s sudden address, and extended his hand.
Violante bowed her graceful head to the young man’s respectful salutation. “I am on my way to Hazeldean,” resumed Randal, “and, seeing you in the garden, could not resist this intrusion.”
Riccabocca.—“You come from London? Stirring times for you English, but I do not ask you the news. No news can affect us.”
Randal (softly). “Perhaps—yes.”
Riccabocca (startled).—“How?”
Violante.—“Surely he speaks of Italy, and news from that country affects you still, my father.”
Riccabocca.—“Nay, nay, nothing affects me like this country; its east wind might affect a pyramid! Draw your mantle round you, child, and go in; the air has suddenly grown chill.”
Violante smiled on her father, glanced uneasily toward Randal’s grave brow, and went slowly toward the house.
Riccabocca, after waiting some moments in silence, as if expecting Randal to speak, said with affected carelessness. “So you think that you have news that might affect me? Corpo di Bacco! I am curious to learn what!”