"I am sure I don’t know, but somewhere about Midsummer. They never told Conny when his was, but he knew it somehow. Come, he is clever now, Clara, though you don’t think I am. Isn’t he now? Tell the truth." "I am thinking of far more important matters than your rude brother’s ability. Whence did you come to England and when?" This was quite a shot in the dark. But I had long suspected that they were of Southern race. "I am sure I don’t know. I was quite a child at the time, and the subject has been interdicted; but I think we came from Italy, and at least ten years ago." "And your brother speaks Italian more readily than English. Can you tell me anything more?" "Nothing. Only I know that old Cora is a Corsican: she boasts of it every night, when she comes to see me in bed, although she has been forbidden. But what does she care--she asks--for this dirty little English island? And she sits by my bed, and sings droning songs, which I hardly understand; but she says they are beautiful nannas." How my heart was beating, at every simple sentence. None of this had I heard before, because she durst not tell it. "Any other questions, Donna?" She was recovering her spirits, as girls always do by talking. "Why, my darling, you ought to have a wig. You beat all the senior sophists." "Yes. Now come and kiss me. Kiss me for a pledge that you will never leave me. I am rich again now: you can’t tell how rich I am, and nothing to do with my money, and nobody likely to share it. If you were my own sister, I could not love you more; and most likely I should not love you a quarter as much. And my Uncle longs to see you so. You shall come and live with me, and we’ll be two old maids together. Now promise, darling, promise. Kiss me, and seal the bargain." "Clara, I would rather be your servant than the queen of the world. Only promise first that you will never scold me. I cannot bear being scolded. I never used to be; and it will turn all my hair gray." "I will promise never to scold you, unless you run away." She swept back her beautiful hair, threw her arms round my neck, looked in my eyes with a well-spring of love, and kissed me. Oh, traitorous Clara, it was not the kiss--deeply as I loved her--but the evidence I wanted. I knew that with her ardent nature she would breathe her soul upon me. The exquisite fragrance of her breath was like the wind stealing over violets. I had noticed it often before. My last weak doubt was scattered; yet I played with her and myself, one sweet moment longer. "Darling, what scent do you use? What is it you wash your teeth with?" "Nothing but water, Clara; what makes you ask in that way?" "And the perfume in your hair--what is it? Oh, you little Rimmel!" "Nothing at all, Donna. I never use anything scented. Not even Eau de Cologne. I hate all the stuff they sell." "How very odd! Why, I could have declared that your lips and your hair were sprinkled with extract of violets."