Costanza had a very bad half-hour. She had not supposed it was
in the English to be so mercenary. And then la Vecchia, as she was
called in the kitchen, knew so much Italian, and with a doggedness that
filled Costanza with shame on her behalf, for such conduct was the last
one expected from the noble English, she went through item after item,
requiring and persisting till she got them, explanations.
There were no explanations, except that Costanza had had one
glorious week of doing exactly as she chose, of splendid unbridled
licence, and that this was the result.
Costanza, having no explanations, wept. It was miserable to
think she would have to cook from now on under watchfulness, under
suspicion; and what would her relations say when they found the orders
they received were whittled down? They would say she had no influence;
they would despise her.
Costanza wept, but Mrs. Fisher was unmoved. In slow and splendid
Italian, with the roll of the cantos of the Inferno, she informed her
that she would pay no bills till the following week, and that meanwhile
the food was to be precisely as good as ever, and at a quarter the
cost.
Costanza threw up her hands.
Next week, proceeded Mrs. Fisher unmoved, if she found this had
been so she would pay the whole.
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