Meanwhile the Dogana's relative
lifted up her voice and gave a shout.
For an impressive interval there was no reply. Then the
figure of a woman appeared high up on the loggia.
"That is Perfetta," said the girl.
"I want to see Signor Carella," cried Philip.
"Out!"
"Out," echoed the girl complacently.
"Why on earth did you say he was in?" He could have
strangled her for temper. He had been just ripe for an
interview--just the right combination of indignation and
acuteness: blood hot, brain cool. But nothing ever did go
right in Monteriano. "When will he be back?" he called to
Perfetta. It really was too bad.
She did not know. He was away on business. He might be
back this evening, he might not. He had gone to Poggibonsi.
At the sound of this word the little girl put her
fingers to her nose and swept them at the plain. She sang
as she did so, even as her foremothers had sung seven
hundred years back--
Poggibonizzi, fatti in la,
Che Monteriano si fa citta!
Then she asked Philip for a halfpenny. A German lady,
friendly to the Past, had given her one that very spring.
"I shall have to leave a message," he called.
"Now Perfetta has gone for her basket," said the little
girl. "When she returns she will lower it--so. Then you
will put your card into it. Then she will raise it--thus.
By this means--"
When Perfetta returned, Philip remembered to ask after
the baby. It took longer to find than the basket, and he
stood perspiring in the evening sun, trying to avoid the
smell of the drains and to prevent the little girl from
singing against Poggibonsi.
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