“They are not,” replied the librarian, with emphasis. “If they were they would have come here, as the others have, with preconceived ideas which centuries could not break down. One of them is a young advocate from Boston, and the other—you will scarcely believe me—is a young woman.”
“Really?” The contessa manifested an interest not wholly assumed. “A young woman, you say—his wife, perhaps?”
“No, simply a friend.”
“Oh!” Amélie smiled knowingly. “Then perhaps soon to be his wife?”
“You are wrong again, contessa,” replied Cerini. “The man is already married, so that could hardly be the case.”
“And his wife makes no objections? Come, come, monsignore, that would not be human.”
“His wife is as remarkable in her way as he is in his,” the old man answered, with confidence. “We have discussed the matter, and she understands the importance of allowing the work to go on.”
“Then she has raised some objections? Do tell me that she has or I shall find it difficult to believe your story.”
“She did suggest that she would have liked to be able to do this work with her husband, but that was quite out of the question, and she saw it just as I did.”
“How very, very interesting!” the contessa remarked, more to herself than to him. “I wish I might see them at work.” The librarian hesitated, and Amélie knew that hesitation is consent if promptly followed up. “I will promise not to disturb them,” she urged.