“He’s a gallantuomo,” she murmured. Pulling out the large shell pins, she allowed Anne’s hair to fall over her shoulders in a copper cascade.
“Is the signora thinking of returning to Florence before Christmas this year?” she hinted, brush in hand.
Anne laughed again.
“What a shameless propagandist you are, Regina! Would it please you if I did?” she added, avoiding the eyes in the mirror almost shyly.
Her cherished hopes for the Marchese flaming upwards, the Italian manipulated the golden coils deftly. “The signora knows only too well!” she replied with naïve dignity. She placed a jeweled bandeau about Anne’s head. “The hair is a marvel to-night, and in the gown of gold brocade the Signora will be magnificent. She should be going to Court and not wasting herself upon Broadway.”
Her characteristic snort of contempt delighted Anne. She led her on to more flagrant abuse, wriggling into the golden gown in high amusement. Then very regal in a Kolinsky evening coat, she swept down upon the waiting Marchese.
“Regina has been so funny,” she said.
He took her hand and looked down into her mocking face with renewed enchantment.
“The poor thing will never rest until she sees your coronet pressing down my auburn locks.”
His laugh was tender.