"Natural!" Abbott dropped his mahl-stick.
"It is Vesuv', is it not, on a cloudy day?"
This was too much for Abbott's gravity, and he laughed.
"It was not necessary to spoil a good picture ... on my account," said
Flora, closing the lorgnette with a snap. Her great dark eyes were dreamy
and contemplative like a cat's, and, as every one knows, a cat's eye is
the most observing of all eyes. It is quite in the order of things, since
a cat's attitude toward the world is by need and experience wholly
defensive.
"The Signora is wrong. I did not spoil it on her account. It was past
helping yesterday. But I shall, however, rechristen it Vesuvius, since it
represents an eruption of temper."
Flora tapped the handle of her parasol with the lorgnette. It was
distinctly a sign of approval. These Americans were never slow-witted. She
swung the parasol to and fro, slowly, like a pendulum.
"It is too bad," she said, her glance roving over the white walls of the
villa.
"It was irrevocably lost," Abbott declared.
"No, no; I do not mean the picture. I am thinking of La Toscana. Her voice
was really superb; and to lose it entirely...!" She waved a sympathetic
hand.
Abbott was about to rise up in vigorous protest. But fate itself chose to
rebuke Flora. From the window came--"Sai cos' ebbe cuore!"--sung as only
Nora could sing it.
The ferrule of Flora Desimone's parasol bit deeply into the clover-turf.