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Gemma stood quite still beside the pomegranate
tree. She was sorry for the poor, silly
little woman, and annoyed at the Gadfly's languid
insolence. He was watching the retreating figures
with an expression of face that angered her; it
seemed ungenerous to mock at such pitiable creatures.
"There go Italian and--Russian patriotism,"
he said, turning to her with a smile; "arm in arm
and mightily pleased with each other's company.
Which do you prefer?"
She frowned slightly and made no answer.
"Of c-course," he went on; "it's all a question
of p-personal taste; but I think, of the two, I like
the Russian variety best--it's so thorough. If
Russia had to depend on flowers and skies for her
supremacy instead of on powder and shot, how
long do you think 'mon prince' would k-keep
that Polish fortress?"
"I think," she answered coldly, "that we can
hold our personal opinions without ridiculing a
woman whose guests we are."
"Ah, yes! I f-forgot the obligations of hospitality
here in Italy; they are a wonderfully hospitable
people, these Italians.


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