“Ninna’s in the cradle,” she said. “ She’s pretty too.”
Romola went to look at the sleeping Ninna, and Monna Lisa, one of the exceptionally meek deaf, who never expect to be spoken to, returned to her salad.
“Ah! she is waking: she has opened her blue eyes,” said Romola. “You must take her up, and I will sit down in this chair—may I?—and nurse Lillo. Come, Lillo!”
She sat down in Tito’s chair, and put out her arms towards the lad, whose eyes had followed her. He hesitated: and, pointing his small fingers at her with a half-puzzled, half-angry feeling, said, “That’s Babbo’s chair,” not seeing his way out of the difficulty if Babbo came and found Romola in his place.
“But Babbo is not here, and I shall go soon. Come, let me nurse you as he does,” said Romola, wondering to herself for the first time what sort of Babbo he was whose wife was dressed in contadina fashion, but had a certain daintiness about her person that indicated idleness and plenty. Lillo consented to be lifted up, and, finding the lap exceedingly comfortable, began to explore her dress and hands, to see if there were any ornaments beside the rosary.
Tessa, who had hitherto been occupied in coaxing Ninna out of her waking peevishness, now sat down in her low chair, near Romola’s knee, arranging Ninna’s tiny person to advantage, jealous that the strange lady too seemed to notice the boy most, as Naldo did.
“Lillo was going to be angry with me, because I sat in Babbo’s chair,” said Romola, as she bent forward to kiss Ninna’s little foot. “Will he come soon and want it?”
“Ah, no!” said Tessa, “you can sit in it a long while. I shall be sorry when you go. When you first came to take care of me at the Carnival, I thought