It was then for the first time I heard Mr. Mills laugh. It was a
deep, pleasant, kindly note, not very loud and altogether free from
that quality of derision that spoils so many laughs and gives away
the secret hardness of hearts. But neither was it a very joyous
laugh.
"But the truth of the matter is that I am 'en mission,'" continued
Captain Blunt. "I have been instructed to settle some things, to
set other things going, and, by my instructions, Dona Rita is to be
the intermediary for all those objects. And why? Because every
bald head in this Republican Government gets pink at the top
whenever her dress rustles outside the door. They bow with immense
deference when the door opens, but the bow conceals a smirk because
of those Venetian days. That confounded Versoy shoved his nose
into that business; he says accidentally. He saw them together on
the Lido and (those writing fellows are horrible) he wrote what he
calls a vignette (I suppose accidentally, too) under that very
title. There was in it a Prince and a lady and a big dog. He
described how the Prince on landing from the gondola emptied his
purse into the hands of a picturesque old beggar, while the lady, a
little way off, stood gazing back at Venice with the dog
romantically stretched at her feet. One of Versoy's beautiful
prose vignettes in a great daily that has a literary column. But
some other papers that didn't care a cent for literature rehashed
the mere fact. And that's the sort of fact that impresses your
political man, especially if the lady is, well, such as she is . .
."
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