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So she is, and although my idea of the fitness of things is somewhat unsettled when Peppina serves our dinner wearing a yoke and sleeves of coarse lace with her blue cotton gown, and a bunch of scarlet poppies in her hair, I can do nothing in the way of discipline because Salemina approves of her as part of the picture.
The La Touche name, then, is often on our lips, but Salemina offers no intimation that it is indelibly imprinted on her heart of hearts.
I would rather do the marketing for our humble breakfasts and teas, or talk over the day's luncheons and dinners with Mistress Brodie of the Pettybaw Inn and Posting Establishment, than go to the opera. Salemina and Francesca do not enjoy it all quite as intensely as I, so they considerately give me the lion's share.
Salemina and I were sitting this morning in the Peacock Walk, where two trees clipped into the shape of long-tailed birds mount guard over the box hedge, and put their beaks together to form an arch.
I stay for hours in the gondola, writing my letters or watching the thousand and one sights of the streets, for I often allow Salemina and the Little Genius to tread their way through the highways and byways of Venice while I stay behind and observe life from beneath the grateful shade of the black felze.
"She knows every nook and corner in the place," continued Salemina; "she has even seen the house where I was born, and her name is Benella Dusenberry." "Impossible!" cried Francesca. "Dusenberry is unlikely enough, but who ever heard of such a name as Benella! It sounds like a flavouring extract." "She came over to see the world, she says." "Oh! then she has money?"
We have travelled together before, Salemina, Francesca, and I, and we know the very worst there is to know about one another. After this point has been reached, it is as if a triangular marriage had taken place, and, with the honeymoon comfortably over, we slip along in thoroughly friendly fashion.
"Salemina," said I, as I walked into her room, "this life that we are leading will not do for me any longer. I have been too much immersed in ruins. Last night in writing to a friend in New York I uttered the most disloyal and incendiary statements.
We speedily named the girls Rose, Mignonette, Violet, and Celandine, each after the colour of her frock. "But there are only five, and there ought to be six," whispered Salemina, as if she expected to be heard across the street. "One two three four five, you are right," said Mr. Beresford. "The plainest of the lot must be staying in Wales with a maiden aunt who has a lot of money to leave.
This sounds harsh, but nobody minds Salemina, least of all Francesca, who well knows that she is the apple of that spinster's eye. 'Wha last beside his chair shall fa' He is the king amang us three!
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