Hortense disposed of my lady by setting her to chat with the grim old gentleman in the big periwig, whose interest in life gravitated between the latest piece of learned gossip he might pick up at the meetings of the Royal Society and the lighter, more glittering gossip of Whitehall. My lady could at least satisfy him in the lighter vein. The three girls were given a pack of cards and a table in a corner; the sentimental widow—some new book. Hortense herself drew Barbara aside toward one of the windows, as though she was the one person whom she chose to actively amuse.
The prelude between them resembled a game of chess in which one player made tentative moves to which the other blankly refused to respond. A series of challenges provoked nothing but monosyllabic answers. Hortense had no difficulty, as a rule, in persuading even dull or frightened people to talk. There were the many mundane topics to be invoked when necessary: clothes, music, books, men, amusements—and other women.
“Mère de Dieu!” she confessed to herself, at last, “the child is impenetrable. There is a magic spring in every mortal. I have not touched it—here—as yet.”
She studied Barbara with the easy air of the woman of the world who does not betray the glance behind the eyes.
“And who is your great friend—in England, cara mia? We women must always have a confidential mirror, though it does not always tell us the truth. When I was quite young I used to write down all my thoughts and adventures in a book. Some of us make friends with our own souls—in our diaries.”
Barbara looked at her as though all the Italian’s subtle suggestiveness beat on nothing more intelligent than the blank surface of a wall.
“Oh, life is my diary, and then—I write on the faces of those I meet.”
“How dull! Have you travelled much—with your mother?”
“Yes. Is she not charming? so young—and Junelike! She should promise you a long youth.”
Hortense paused, with a momentary gleam of impatience in her eyes.
“Has the child any enthusiasm? Let us try her on another surface. Do you remember your father, cara mia?”
Barbara’s eyes met the Mancini’s with a sudden intense stare.
“Books become such friends to us! Did he teach you—at all?”
“Oh, sometimes. He was very patient. How dark the sky looks!”