But a year
ago, should I have dreamed it possible for me to strut about a
fashionable _plage_ in white ducks, a pink shirt, and a
yachting-cap? I trow not. They are signs of some sort of madness
--whether that of a Jaques or a dingo dog matters very little.
Pasquale was the main cause of my taking Carlotta away from
London. He came far too frequently to the house, established far
too great a familiarity with my little girl. She quoted him far
too readily. She is at the impressionable age when young women
fall easy victims to the allurements of a fascinating creature
like Pasquale. If he showed himself in the light of a possible
husband for Carlotta, I should have nothing to say. I should
give the pair my paternal benediction. But I know my Renaissance
and I know my Pasquale. Carlotta is merely a new sensation--that's
all he seems to live for, the delectable scoundrel. But I am not
going to have her heart broken by any cinquecento wolf in
Poole's clothing. I assume that Carlotta has a heart, even if
she is not possessed of a soul.
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