The girl lifted her eyes to the ceiling.
“Profitto, I mean,” was the hasty correction.
Tears rolled down Angelina's cheeks.
“It couldn't be that boot is stivale!” said the young woman in a low tone to a third person in the room. “That sounds as if it meant something three-cornered.”
“You might try,” was the suggestion.
“Stivale?” demanded the young woman of the donna.
“Si, signorina,” said the girl eagerly, glancing at the articles in question.
“Well, nero my stivale,” ordered the mistress haughtily.
“O Dio mio!” sobbed Angelina.
Isabel lost all patience and dignity. She flew at the boots and caught them in one hand, flew at the toilet-table and snatched her tooth-brush in the other, then, rushing at the terrified donna, performed before her face a furious pantomime of polishing her boots with the tooth-brush.