No one ventured either to acquiesce or to dissent, and it was concluded to put this difficulty on the list of questions we were making out for our Italian teacher to answer the next morning.
“He will be such a convenience to us!” Isabel said. “People assure me that he knows everything, and is never at loss for an answer.”
Mr. Varney took a pinch of snuff. He had always shown an inclination toward that indulgence, but had not dared to yield to it in America. Now, however, with such eminent examples constantly before his eyes, he could carry his snuff-box, not only with impunity, but with a kind of pride.
“Have you reflected, my daughter,” he asked, “that your Italian teacher knows not a word of English, and that, since you cannot very well fly at him, as you could at Angelina, and extract his meaning at the sword's point, his explanations, however excellent they may be, are not likely to profit you much for some time to come?”
“Oh! we will make out some way,” she replied carelessly. “One can always understand a clever person. Besides, if worse comes to worse, I don't know why I shouldn't fly at him, if necessary. He will be paid for his time; and one can always scold a person whom one pays.”
The last sun-ray faded away, and the golden globe of the new moon shone out over Santa Maria Maggiore, shining so low and full in the transparent sky that one almost feared it might strike the tower or domes of that dearest of churches in passing, and break itself like a bubble.
We were silent a little while, then Mr. Varney said, “Sing us that song you are humming, my darling.”
When he said “my darling,” he always meant Bianca.
She made a motion to put away the music-sheet before her, and take another, but replaced it; and presently we heard her low voice, which half sang, half spoke, the words:
“Friend, the way is steep and lonely,