Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing.”
But as Assunta had already left the piano to greet her guardian and his sister, he continued:
“By the way, Clara, my quotation has suggested to me an answer to your question. Assunta, my fickle sister, who a week ago was ready to live and die in a picture-gallery, has just now assured me that the very mention of a picture or statue is a fatigue to her; and she has mercilessly compelled me to find some new and original bit of sight-seeing for to-day. We cannot, of course, visit any church, since the Holy Father is, unfortunately for her, not an iconoclast. But, Clara, what do you say to making a Shelley day of it? We will take Prometheus Unbound with us to the Baths of Caracalla, and there, on the very spot which inspired the poem, we can read parts of it. And when we are tired, we can prolong our drive to the cemetery, and visit Shelley's grave, as a proper conclusion. How do you like the plan?”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Grey, “it will be deliciously sentimental; only breakfast is announced, and I am in a famished condition. I was up so early this morning. It must have been before eleven when that stupid girl called me, and it is an hour since I took my coffee.”
“Poor Clara!” said Mr. Carlisle, “your condition is truly pitiable. I should think you might find the almshouse a pleasant change.” Mrs. Grey seemed only amused at her brother's sarcasm, when suddenly she checked her silvery laugh, and, springing from the table, at which she had just seated herself, she went towards Assunta with such a pretty, penitential air that she was quite irresistible.
“My dear child,” she exclaimed, “speaking of almshouses reminds me of something you will never forgive. Promise me not to scold, and I will devote myself henceforth to the cultivation of my memory.”
“What is it?” asked Assunta, smiling at her earnestness. “I am sure such a pleading look would force forgiveness from a stone.”
“Well, then, for my confession, since you absolve me beforehand. While you were out yesterday morning that miserable woman of yours sent word that she was sick, and something about not having a mouthful of bread in the house. I forget the whole message. My maid saw the girl who came, and I promised to tell you. But you remember my wretched headache. You forgave me, you know.”
Assunta looked both grieved and vexed for a moment, and then she controlled herself enough to say:
“I must attach a condition to my forgiveness, Clara. Will you [pg 779] let me drive to the house on our way to the baths? I will only detain you a few minutes.”