"It seems very real, doesn't it, my dear?" said Deborah.
Beatrice turned upon her.
"It is-a r-real!" she exclaimed. "It was-a te-r-rue! 'E did kill-a da Christiano. It was long ago. You are-a cold, you Americani!"
"Come, come, Beatrice," I interposed. "You must not speak like that to Miss Speedwell. Take us to your father at once. I shall tell him that you are a naughty girl."
III
In the little enclosure behind the scenes Pietro gave us a welcome that raised a lump in my throat.
"Old friend!" he exclaimed, in his pure Tuscan. "Why have you left us lonely so long? The theatre has not been a satisfaction without you. No one understands it as you do."
As I shook his hand I noted that his dark eyes had dulled over, and that anxiety had cut a wrinkle between his white old brows.
"I am making amends," I answered. "I am bringing someone who will comprehend your art as well as I."
"This lady! You are married, then. It is well."