And once or twice as she saw her thus, she was
startled by the likeness to Melrose.
When they were halfway home, a thin, high voice struck into the silence,
deliberately clear:
"Who is the Signorina Penfold?"
"Her mother is a widow. They have lived here about two years."
"She is not pretty. She is too pale. I do not like that hair," said
Felicia, viciously.
Victoria could not help an unseen smile.
"Everybody here thinks her pretty. She is very clever, and a beautiful
artist," she said, with slight severity.
The gesture beside her was scarcely discernible. But Victoria thought it
was a toss of the head.
"Everybody in Italy can paint. It is as common--as common as
lizards! There are dozens of people in Lucca who can paint--a whole
villa--ceilings, walls--what you like. Nobody thinks anything at all
about them. But Italian girls are very clever also! There were two girls
in Lucca--Marchesine--the best family in Lucca. They got all the prizes
at the Liceo, and then they went to Pisa to the University; and one of
them was a Doctor of Law; and when they came home, all the street in
which they lived and their _palazzo_ were lit up. And they were very
pretty too!"
"And you--did you go to the Liceo, Felicia?"
"No! I had never any education--none, none, _none_! But I could get it,
if I wanted," said the voice, defiantly.
"Of course you could. I have asked your mother to stay with us till
Christmas. You might get some lessons in Carlisle.
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