Quite at her ease, as if she were the mistress of a well-kissed hand, was Signora Aurelia Lanfranchi, for that was her name, and had been so for rather more than two years—­quite at her ease and most anxious to put Strelley there.  Relieving him of his cloak and hat, of his sword, pistols and other travelling gear, in spite of all protestations on his part, she talked freely and on end about anything and nothing in a soft voice which rose and died down like a summer wind, and betrayed in its muffled tones—­as if it came to him through silk—­that she was not of the north, but of some mellower, more sun-ripened land.  She was in fact of Siena, a Gualandi by birth, and extremely proud of it.  Strelley was so informed before he had been four-and-twenty hours in her company.  But now, having spoiled him of his defences, she invited him into the salone, wooed him thither, indeed, with that sidelong head and sort of sleek smile with which you coax a cat to come to your knee.  Mr. Francis would have followed her singing to the bonfire on such terms.

At the table, which was liberal, was the learned doctor seated already, napkin to chin.  Mr. Strelley was shown his place, and expected to take it while the fair housewife waited upon the two; and when he seemed timid, she raised a wail of pretty protest and dragged him by the arm towards the chair.  It was absurd, it was preposterous, he was robbing her of her pride.  She had eaten long ago—­besides, it was the woman’s place, and Nonna was in the kitchen, ashamed to appear in the state she was in.  Signor Francesco must please her in this—­she would be vexed—­ and surely he would not vex his hostess.  To this wilful chant the doctor contributed his burden of “Che! che!  S’accommodi!” and rapped with his knife-handle upon the table.  Old Nonna, toothless, bearded and scared, popped her head beyond the kitchen door; to be short, insistence went to a point where good manners could not follow.  Mr. Francis sat himself down, and Donna Aurelia, clapping her little hands, cried aloud that victory was hers.  “Quick, quick, Nonna, these signori are at table!” She stormed into the kitchen, and speedily returned with a steaming and savoury dish.  She dispensed the messes, she poured the wine, she hovered here and there—­salt? pepper? cheese? yet a little bread?  Madonna purissima, she had forgotten the mustard!  No! it was here—­it was here!  There must have been more rejoicings over the recovery of the mustard than were made for the victory of Lepanto.  Betweenwhiles she talked gaily or pathetically or intimately of things of which the guest had known nothing, but immediately felt that he now knew all; the moral lapses of this professor or that, the unparalleled slight offered to Signora Pappagallo by Donna Susanna Tron, the storm of rain and thunder on Tuesday week—­no, it must have been Monday week; a scandal in the Senate, a duel in the Pra, how the Avvocato Minghini was picked up dead in Pedrocchi’s—­a meat-fly in his chocolate!  Sparkling eyes, a delicate flush, quick breath, a shape at once pliant and audacious, flashing hands with which half her spells were woven—­all these, and that wailing, dragging, comico-tragic voice, that fatal appeal of the child, trained by the wisdom of the wife, completed the rout of our youth.  Before supper was over he was her loyal slave.