"Brigida!" cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. "Brigida! our charming English friend is arrived!"
"All right!" answered a strong hearty voice from upstairs. "I'm coming."
"You must excuse me, dear Miss Hamelyn," went on Madame Petrucci. "You must excuse me for shouting in your presence, but we have only one little servant, and during this suffocating weather I find that any movement reminds me of approaching age." The old lady smiled, as if that time were still far ahead.
"I am sure you ought to take care of yourself," said Miss Hamelyn. "I hope you will not allow Goneril to fatigue you."
"Gonerilla! What a pretty name! Charming! I suppose it is in your family?" asked the old lady.
Miss Hamelyn blushed a little, for her niece's name was a sore point with her.
"It's an awful name for any Christian woman," said a deep voice at the door. "And pray who's called Goneril?"
Miss Prunty came forward; a short, thick-set woman of fifty, with fine dark eyes, and, even in a Florentine summer, with something stiff and masculine in the fashion of her dress.
"And have you brought your niece?" she said, turning to Miss Hamelyn.
"Yes, she is in the garden."