Dorothy, and Other Italian Stories. Woolson Constance Fenimore

sisters were between that age and sixteen. These younger girls were tall, blooming, and handsome. Nora was small, insignificant, and pale; but her eyes were charming, if one took the trouble to look at them, and there was something pretty in her soft, dark hair, put back plainly and primly behind her ears, with a smooth parting in front; one felt sure that she did not arrange it in that way from a pious contentment with her own appearance, but rather from some shy little ideal of her own, which she would never tell.

      "Do you think they have all had tea?" she was saying anxiously as Waddy came up. She addressed a gentleman by her side who had evidently been acting as her assistant.

      "I think so," he answered, looking about the room with almost as much solicitude as her own.

      Her face cleared; she laughed. "It's so kind of you! You have carried cups all the afternoon."

      "I only hope I haven't broken any," responded her companion, still with a trace of responsibility in his tone.

      "It is terribly dangerous, with so many people pushing against one. How you can do it so cleverly, I can't think. But indeed, Mr. Mackenzie, I do not believe you could let anything drop," Nora went on, paying him her highest compliment. "This is the fourth Saturday you have given to these teacups; I am afraid it has been tiresome. Raffaello ought to do it all; but Italian servants – "

      "They are not like yours in England; I can understand that. But Raffaello, now – Raffaello has seemed to me rather a good fellow," said Mackenzie.

      At this moment Dorothy, carrying a shawl, appeared at the door; she made her way to the table. "May I have some tea, Miss Sebright, please, for mamma?"

      "I will carry it for you," said Waddy, eagerly.

      "Won't you take some tea yourself, Miss Dorothy, before you go back to the garden?" suggested Mackenzie, in his deferential tones.

      "I? Do you think I take tea? And how can you like it, Mr. Mackenzie? You're not an Englishman."

      Waddy thanked fate that his mother had entered human existence in New York. Charrington, who was now near the table also, only laughed good-naturedly. On the whole he was of the opinion that Dorothy liked him. Her ideas about tea, or about other English customs, were not important; he could alter them.

      "I am afraid I must acknowledge that I do like it," Mackenzie had answered.

      "Do you take it in the morning – for breakfast?" inquired Dorothy, with the air of a judge.

      Mackenzie confessed that he did.

      "Then you are lost. Oh, coffee, lovely coffee of home!" Dorothy went on. "Coffee that fills the house at breakfast-time with its delicious fragrance. Not black, as the Italians make it. Not drowned in boiled milk, as the French drink it. As for the English beverage – But ours, the American – brown, strong, and with real cream! I wish I had a cup of it now – three cups – and six buckwheat cakes with maple syrup!"

      The contrast between this evoked repast and the girl herself was so comical that the Americans who heard her broke into a laugh. Dorothy was very slight; there was something ethereal in her appearance, although the color in her cheeks, the brilliancy of her hazel eyes, and the bright hue of her chestnut hair indicated a vivid vitality. As a whole, she was charmingly pretty. The Americans who had laughed were but two – Mackenzie himself and Stephen Lefevre, who had now joined the group. Lefevre wished that his adorable little countrywoman would not say "lovely coffee." But Lefevre was, no doubt, a purist.

      Felicia Philipps now came to the table with out-stretched hands. "Poor Nora, I have only just observed how tired you are! You must have one of your fearful headaches?"

      "Oh dear, no," answered Nora, surprised. "I haven't a headache in the least."

      "Fancy! But you are overtired without knowing it; you must be, or you would not look so pale. I am sure Mr. Mackenzie sees it. Don't you think, Mr. Mackenzie, that Miss Sebright has been here quite long enough? I'm so anxious to relieve her."

      "It's very good of you, I'm sure," replied Mackenzie.

      And then Felicia, pulling off her gloves, came round behind the table and took possession of the place with an amiability and a rearrangement of the cups that defied opposition.

      "I am afraid this tea will be cold," Waddy meanwhile had suggested to Dorothy.

      "Yes, do take it down to mamma, Mr. Brunetti. And take this shawl too, won't you?"

      "Aren't you coming?" said Waddy, in a discomfited voice, as, shawl in one hand and teacup in the other, he stood waiting.

      "In five minutes; I have taken a fancy for spending just five minutes in that big yellow chair."

      "That is wise; I'm very pleased to hear you say it," remarked Nora, who, though dispossessed, still lingered near. "We come up here, stay awhile, and then go away; but you are kept on your feet for three or four hours at a time."

      "You don't go away, do you, Nora?" said Felicia. "You are so kind. I dare say you have been here since noon?"

      "The samovar – " began Nora.

      "Dear samovar!" commented Felicia, smiling.

      And then Nora, at last understanding the sarcasm of the tone, left the table and crossed the room, her cheeks no longer colorless. Alan Mackenzie, who had heard this little dialogue, thought that the two ladies had been very kind to each other.

      Mrs. Tracy, on her way back from the anteroom, whither she had gone to escort Julian Grimston's mother, who was taking leave, now stopped at the tea-table. She drew Felicia aside. "Stay and dine with us, won't you? We are always tired on Saturday evenings, and it will be delightful to hear you sing. The carriage shall take you home."

      "You're awfully good," Felicia answered. "But don't trouble to send out the carriage. Ask Mr. Mackenzie too. He will be enchanted to stay, and then we can go down together on foot, and nobody need be bothered."

      "You don't mind?"

      "At my age!" answered Felicia, smiling. Felicia's smile always had a slightly hungry look.

      "We shouldn't think of it. But then we're Americans," responded Mrs. Tracy. "Over here no woman seems to be safely old."

      "Is that why so many of you come over?" demanded Felicia, who at heart detested all American women, especially those who, like the tenants of Villa Dorio, had plenty of money at their disposal. Then curbing her tongue, she added, "What you say is true of wives and widows. But I assure you that old maids are shelved over here as soon and as completely as they are with you in Oregon."

      "In Oregon!" repeated Mrs. Tracy. "You English are too extraordinary." And she went away, laughing.

      During this conversation Dorothy was leaning back in the gold-colored easy-chair; Charrington and Stephen Lefevre were standing beside her, and presently Julian Grimston joined the group, rubbing his dry little hands together gleefully, and murmuring to himself something that sounded like "Aha! aha!"

      "Is it the pure joy of living, Mr. Grimston?" Dorothy inquired. For this was said to have been Julian's answer when an acquaintance, upon passing him in the street one day and overhearing him ahaing, had asked what it meant.

      At this moment Waddy came from the anteroom. "And mamma's tea?" Dorothy asked.

      "Raffaello was just going down; I gave it to him."

      "Oh, thanks. I'm thinking how little mamma will like that." And Dorothy played thoughtfully a soundless tune with her right hand upon the arm of the easy-chair.

      Waddy pursed up his lips in an inaudible whistle. Then with swift step he left the room.

      Five minutes later he was back again. "It's all right. I caught up with him," he said, briefly.

      "Now mark that," began Charrington. "This impostor gave those things to Mrs. North, I'll warrant, with rolling eyes that seemed to say that even to have touched them had been a huge joy." Waddy did not defend himself. "I wouldn't be a cherub, as you are, even if I could," went on Charrington. "You belong to Christmas-cards – your chin on your clasped hands. What is a cherub out of business – a cherub going about clothed, and with an umbrella? It's ghastly."

      Mrs.