But my nephew there wouldn't have a thing touched.' She looked at Manisty, with a movement of the lips and head that seemed to implore him to make some efforts.
Manisty frowned a little, lifted his great brow and looked, not at Miss Foster, but at Mrs.Burgoyne-- 'The room, as it happens, gives me more pleasure than any other in the villa.' Mrs.Burgoyne laughed.
'Because it's hideous ?' 'If you like.

I should only call it the natural, untouched thing.' Then while his Aunt and Mrs.Burgoyne made mock of him, he fell silent again, nervously crumbling his bread with a large wasteful hand.

Lucy Foster stole a look at him, at the strong curls of black hair piled above the brow, the moody embarrassment of the eyes, the energy of the lips and chin.
Then she turned to her companions.

Suddenly the girl's clear brown skin flushed rosily, and she abruptly took her eyes from Mrs.Burgoyne.
Miss Manisty, however--in despair of her nephew--was bent upon doing her own duty.

She asked all the proper questions about the girl's journey, about the cousins at Florence, about her last letters from home.