“Yes, miss!” says Giuseppe.
“I hate to be called ‘miss,’ ” remarked the young lady. “Call me signorina. Of all titles I think miss the most disagreeable. And Mrs. and Mr. are not much better. The Italian language has that one advantage, I will own.”
“Be careful about the fruit you give us,” Mr. Varney went on. “We want ripe fruit. The figs to-day were not quite perfect. Figs,” said Mr. Varney with solemn deliberation—“figs should be just right, or they are good for nothing. When they are just right, there is nothing better, and you can give them to us three times a day. They must be ripe, but not too ripe; fine-grained, but not salvy; cool, crisp, intensely sweet, and on the point of bursting open, but not quite broken.”
Giuseppe forgot his English training long enough to inquire, “Hadn't you better speak to the trees about it, sir?”
“That will do,” Mr. Varney concluded with dignity. “I have no more to say now. You can go.”
The setting sun, shining on the new walls opposite, was reflected into our drawing-room, lighting it beautifully, touching Mr. Varney's gray hair and pleasant face, as he sat in a huge, yellow arm-chair by the window and diving into Isabel's bright eyes, as she leaned on his shoulder, and looked over with him the Diario Romano, trying to make out the holy-days.
“Here is the anniversary of the coronation of Pius IX.,” she said. “I wonder if we shall be arrested if we wear yellow roses in our hats, Bianca?”
Mr. Varney pored awhile over the book in his hand, and presently asked, with a general inquiring glance about the room, “Does anybody know what time of day or night twenty-three o'clock is? Here is a function announced to begin at twenty-three o'clock. Do people go to church at that hour? I should think it would be very late at night.”
“It might be some time the next day,” suggested a member of the family.
The gentleman arranged his glasses, and looked puzzled. “Then, when a function is announced for twenty-three o'clock on Wednesday, it takes place at some hour on Thursday,” he said.