“Did you mean my friend?” I asked quickly, as I felt angry hot spots burn on my cheeks. You have to fasten Leslie. She likes to be mean in a remote, detached way, which is the meanest way one can be mean! Of course she didn’t own up to it; I might have known she wouldn’t! Instead, she answered with, “_Really_, why would I mean your friend whom I’ve never seen? What _possible_ interest would I have in him?” I didn’t answer that; I couldn’t, I was too angry. I ate instead, and so fast that I afterward came as close to feeling that I had a stomach as I ever do. If I had known then how Leslie would come to feel about Mr. Wake, and how she was one day to say, “Why didn’t you _tell_ me he wrote books?” I would have been comforted. But the veil that covers the future is both heavy and thick, (I guess I must have gotten that out of some book, but I can’t remember where) and that evening I was to have nothing to comfort me. Something diverted me on the way to my room, and that was Beata, who sat in the hall with her head on her pretty arms that were dropped on a table. “Why, Beata!” I said, for she looked so forlorn, and I put my hand on her shoulder. That made her raise her head, and she looked at me and tried to smile, but there were tear stains on her cheeks and her heavy lashes were moist, and I saw that the red tie was crumpled up in her hand and I was certain that the tie was a little link in her story. “Oh, Signorina,” she whimpered, and timidly groped for my hand, and when she found it she held to it tightly, while I patted her shoulder with the free one. It seemed strange to stand there with her, understanding and helping each other without a word, when Leslie and I could not understand or help each other, with all our words in common. Leslie sailed by at that moment, and raised her brows as she looked at the tableau I made with Beata. She thought it was common. But it was not. I am not always certain of my judgment of her then, because at that time I didn’t like her, but I know I am right in saying that she at that moment was the ordinary soul, for she would have gone past need, and--raised her brows in passing! CHAPTER TEN CREAM PUFFS, THE TWILIGHT, AND-- The week that followed the day of our first visit to Signor Paggi allowed us all to find our grooves and to settle into them. And each day I, in my going, started with a continental breakfast--one can slip over these quickly!--and after I had had my two rolls and a pot of something that smelled a _little_ like coffee and tasted a _lot_ like some health drink, I went on to two hours of practising. I finished these when the clock struck eleven, and then I’d write letters, or sew fresh collars and cuffs in my blue serge, or wash stockings and underwear, or walk until it was time for the mellow, soft-toned bell that hung in the hall to be rung and for Beata to say, “È pronto!” which of course meant lunch, and that it was one.