“Oh, I know, I know,” said Minnie, briskly.  “He told me all that.  He understands that; but he doesn’t care, he says, if I only consent.  He will forgive you, he says.”

Minnie’s volubility was suddenly checked by catching her sister’s eye fixed on her in new amazement.

“Now you’re beginning to be horrid,” she cried.  “Don’t, don’t—­”

“Will you have the kindness to tell me,” said Mrs. Willoughby, very quietly, “how in the world the Count contrived to tell you all this?”

“Why—­why—­several times.”

“Several times!”

“Yes.”

“Tell me where?”

“Why, once at the amphitheatre.  You were walking ahead, and I sat down to rest, and he came and joined me.  He left before you came back.”

“He must have been following us, then.”

“Yes.  And another time in the picture-gallery; and yesterday in a shop; and this morning at the Cathedral.”

“The Cathedral!”

“Yes, Kitty.  You know we all went, and Lady Dairymple would not go up.  So Ethel and I went up.  And when we got up to the top I walked about, and Ethel sat down to admire the view.  And, you know, I found myself off at a little distance, when suddenly I saw Count Girasole.  And then, you know, he—­he—­proposed.”

Mrs. Willoughby sat silent for some time.

“And what did you say to him?” she asked at length.

“Why, what else could I say?”

“What else than what?”

“I don’t see why you should act so like a grand inquisitor, Kitty.  You really make me feel quite nervous,” said Minnie, who put her little rosy-tipped fingers to one of her eyes, and attempted a sob, which turned out a failure.

“Oh, I only asked you what you told him, you know.”

“Well,” said Minnie, gravely, “I told him, you know, that I was awfully grateful to him, and that I’d give any thing if I could to express my gratitude.  And then, you know—­oh, he speaks such darling broken English—­he called me his ‘mees,’ and tried to make a pretty speech, which was so mixed with Italian that I didn’t understand one single word.  By-the-way, Kitty, isn’t it odd how every body here speaks Italian, even the children?”

“Yes, very odd; but, Minnie dear, I want to know what you told him.”

“Why, I told him that I didn’t know, you know.”

“And then?”

“And then he took my hand.  Now, Kitty, you’re unkind.  I really can not tell you all this.”

“Yes, but I only ask so as to advise you.  I want to know how the case stands.”

“Well, you know, he was so urgent—­”

“Yes?”

“And so handsome—­”

“Well?”

“And then, you know, he saved my life—­didn’t he, now?  You must acknowledge that much, mustn’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Well—­”

“Well?”

Minnie sighed.

“So what could I say?”