Stung by the insolent composure of that question, Carmina answered sharply, “Her name is on the telegram; you ought to know!”
“Indeed?” said Mrs. Gallilee. “Perhaps, she likes London?”
“She hates London! You have had her in the house; you have seen us together. Now she has lost her husband, do you think she can live apart from the one person in the world whom she loves best?”
“My dear, these matters of mere sentiment escape my notice,” Mrs. Gallilee rejoined. “It’s an expensive journey from Italy to England. What was her husband?”
“Her husband was foreman in a manufactory till his health failed him.”
“And then,” Mrs. Gallilee concluded, “the money failed him, of course. What did he manufacture?”
“Artists’ colours.”
“Oh! an artists’ colourman? Not a very lucrative business, I should think. Has his widow any resources of her own?”
“My purse is hers!”
“Very generous, I am sure! Even the humblest lodgings are dear in this neighbourhood. However—with your assistance—your old servant may be able to live somewhere near you.”