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Updated: June 2, 2025
Signor Graziano's usual week of holiday passed and lengthened into almost two months, and still he stayed on at the villa. The two old ladies were highly delighted. "At last he has taken my advice!" cried Miss Prunty. "I always told him those premature gray hairs came from late hours and Roman air." Madame Petrucci shook her head and gave a meaning smile.
"He did, in fact, refuse; but my brother would have no baptism saving with that name, which, unfortunately, it is impossible to shorten." "I think it is a charming name!" said Madame Petrucci, coming to the rescue. "Gonerilla it dies on one's lips like music! And if you do not like it, Brigida, what's in a name? as your charming Byron said." "I hope we shall make her happy," said Miss Prunty.
"And now, since Gonerilla is no longer a stranger," added Madame Petrucci, "we will leave her to the rustic society of Angiolino while we show Miss Hamelyn our orangery." "And conclude our business!" said Bridget Prunty. One day, when Goneril, much browner and rosier for a week among the mountains, came in to lunch at noon, she found no signs of that usually regular repast.
Madame Petrucci, always serene and kind, took no notice of these little changes, but they were particularly irritating to Miss Prunty, who was, after all, only four years older than the signorino. That lady had, indeed, become more than usually sharp and foreboding.
"We expect the signorino," said Miss Prunty. "And is he going to stay here?" "Don't be a fool!" snapped that lady; and then she added, "Go into the kitchen and get some of the pasty and some bread and cheese there's a good girl." "All right!" said Goneril. Madame Petrucci stopped her vocalising. "You shall have all the better a dinner to compensate you, my Gonerilla!"
She received the signorino's gay effusions in ominous silence, and would frown darkly while Madame Petrucci petted her "little bird," as she called Goneril. Once, indeed, Miss Prunty was heard to remark that it was tempting Providence to have dealings with a creature whose very name was a synonym for ingratitude.
"He did, in fact, refuse; but my brother would have no baptism saving with that name, which, unfortunately, it is impossible to shorten." "I think it is a charming name!" said Madame Petrucci, coming to the rescue. "Goneril: it dies on one's lips like music! And if you do not like it, Brigida, what's in a name? as your charming Byron said." "I hope we shall make her happy," said Miss Prunty.
"That's all stale news!" cried Miss Prunty, jumping up. They walked out on to the terrace. The girl was not there, but by the gate into the olive-yard, where there was a lean-to shed for tools, they found her sitting on a cask, whittling a piece of wood and talking to a curly-headed little contadino. Hearing steps, Goneril turned round. "He was asleep," she said.
Goneril blushed; her hat had slipped back and showed her short brown curls of hair, strong regular features, and flexile scarlet mouth laughing upward like a faun's. She had sweet dark eyes, a little too small and narrow. "I mean to be very happy," she exclaimed. "Always mean that, my dear," said Miss Prunty.
"Goneril is a very simple girl," said Miss Hamelyn. "So it's she that's called Goneril?" "Yes," said the aunt, making an effort. "Of course I am aware of the strangeness of the name, but but, in fact, my brother was devotedly attached to his wife, who died at Goneril's birth." "Whew!" whistled Miss Prunty. "The parson must have been a fool who christened her!"
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