The old lady shrank, as if a glass of water had been rudely thrown in her face. She said nothing, staring blindly.
"Go to bed, Goneril!" cried Miss Prunty in a voice of thunder.
CHAPTER IV.
BIRDS OF A FEATHER.
A few mornings after these events the postman brought a letter for Goneril. This was such a rare occurrence that she blushed rose red at the very sight of it, and had to walk up and down the terrace several times before she felt calm enough to read it. Then she went upstairs and knocked at the door of Madame Petrucci's room.
"Come in, little bird."
The old lady, in pink merino and curl-papers, opened the door. Goneril held up her letter.
"My cousin Jack is coming to Florence, and he is going to walk over to see me this afternoon. And may he stay to dinner, cara signora?"
"Why, of course, Gonerilla. I am charmed!"