magnificent paulownia tree, was spread the dinner service. It was like a feast in Boccaccio, Jack thought, after the stuffy table-d’hôtes and the stuffier dining-room at Hetherton—stands of bright flowers, piles of rosy peaches, grapes full of lustrous colour, plums, figs heaped on their dishes, and two or three green melons lying in the midst of this gay confusion of colour.

“It is nearly seven o’clock, I see,” said the elder girl, glancing carelessly at it. “Kitty, tell Pasquale to set another place; of course you will dine with us,” she added, turning to the young Englishman, “but please to come to the breakfast-room, mamma is sure to be there.”

As she spoke she opened a door which led into another and smaller salon, and from this they went through another. Both had inlaid floors and marble tables; in one a couple of marble statues stood looking sadly and reproachfully, so Jack fancied, at the girl who went quickly by without so much as glancing towards them, her beautiful face eager, her cheeks glowing. There were no statues in the second room, only black negro boys holding flower-stands; but the stands were empty, and evidently the rooms were uninhabited, and even on this day a little dreary. It was different with the little room to which they led; there all the available furniture had been gathered. It was not very handsome, but a pretty homelike air hung about everything. A glass door opened on steps which went down to a gay little flower-garden, and were shaded by a weeping willow, while from some unseen source there came a pleasant refreshing sound of bubbling water. In a low chair near the window sat a lady who had probably been asleep, from the bewildered air with which she looked up, and Jack’s companion evidently thought so too, for she gave a little impatient pat upon her shoulder.

“Wake up, mamma, we have got something quite new for you to-day,” she began in the tone in which one would offer a toy to a spoiled child. “Here is an English gentleman who is going to dine with us. I dare say you have just come from England, and know about things?” she continued, addressing him.

Jack felt an irresistible inclination to laugh, and yet there was something in the little scene which touched him. He had been taken possession of without much freedom of action being permitted him, and now was expected to play off his tunes like a wound-up barrel organ. But it was impossible not to see that the girl was free from any thought of self, and as she made this last appeal the wistfulness in the beautiful brown eyes went to his heart. He was going to speak, but she interrupted him.

“Wait a moment,” she said quite gravely, “I had forgotten. This is Mr Ibbetson, mamma. Mr Ibbetson—Mrs Masters.”

Her mother put out her hand languidly.

“Beatrice is original in her introductions, but she knows that anyone who can tell me about my own country is welcome at Villa Carlina,” she said.

They fell into chat quite easily, indeed everything about the house seemed free from formality or stiffness, Ibbetson thought. Mrs Masters was a largely built, fair woman, slow in movement; generally her face looked placid, but sometimes a startled expression crossed it which gave a sudden sharpness to the lines on her forehead. She dressed rather untidily, and with an evident leaning towards bright colours; her voice went on in a pleasant plaintive ripple, and there was no labour in the conversation. Bice took no part in it. She had drawn a low chair to the head of the steps, and sat leaning forward, her elbow on her knee, her chin resting on her hand, all the delicate lines of her white dress falling in graceful folds. Jack thought, as he looked, that a sculptor could not have found a more perfect attitude, or a more exquisitely moulded head, thrown out as it was by the background of cool green outside. Who was she? How came she by an English name, and yet the highest type of Italian beauty? The other girl came in, and he could see that she was three or four years younger; she was so slender as to be thin and almost angular, and bore not the least resemblance to either Bice or her mother.

“Yes, it is pretty here,” the mother was saying, “especially just now in the vintage time. But it becomes very monotonous; the days go by one after the other, all alike, and all dull. There are no neighbours, or hardly any. The Moronis come sometimes, young Giovanni brings his guitar, and the girls sit out there on the steps and sing. Yes, that is pretty, too, but still one tires, and in the winter of course it is a hundred times worse. I do envy the people in Florence, who have theatres and the Cascine always to fall back upon. For myself it does not matter; but you will understand that it is a trial to see these children growing up with none of the advantages of other girls—I am afraid very unlike others.”

She looked at Ibbetson for sympathy, but what could he say? It was in this very unlikeness that it seemed to him the charm lay, and yet he was sure this was not a woman to understand it. Bice had clasped her hands round her knee, and was staring out of the window frowning.

“Don’t talk about Florence, mamma,” she said impatiently. “Everybody knows what Florence is; Kitty and I would not live there for anything in the world. Is it any good for people to drive about in their best clothes and look at one another? But we are English, you know; please tell us about England,” she went on, addressing Ibbetson, “or stay—there is the dinner bell, come to dinner; I will meet you on the terrace, and bring your dog, for he must have something to eat, though he did kill my poor little turkey.”

To Jack that dinner was unlike all others; he half expected to awake from a dream of delicious air, of sweet scents, and the gorgeous fruits with which the table was piled. The little party sat on two sides of it; Beatrice, opposite, looked at him with grave questioning eyes; Kitty was shy and did not say much; but Mrs Masters’ talk rippled on without more break than a little accompaniment of sighs. Old Andrea, the fat cook, brought up one of the dishes himself in order that he might see the English signore. He stood with his hands behind him, smiling and gossiping in a full rich voice about the news of the little town from which he fetched the letters every day. Afterwards they went back to the morning room. Crimson cushions had been laid on the steps; Mrs Masters buried herself in an arm-chair at the top, the others sat about on the cushions. The glow of the setting sun still lingered in the clear sky; there were faint sounds of rustling leaves, of dropping water, the cry of grilli, the soft patter of naked feet as the gardeners ran about, watering.

“We should have no flowers otherwise,” explained Kitty; “the lemon trees alone require it every night. They will go on until ten o’clock.”

“I am looking out for fire-flies,” said Jack.

“Oh, you are much too late; you will not see them after June. They come to light the corn to grow, and every night as the clock strikes twelve they creep up the stems of the trees and go to sleep.”

It was all possible, Jack felt, in this land of enchantment. Presently, without any prelude, the two girls began to sing a wild sweet stornello. The voices were not very strong, but they were like one; they went on rising, falling, answering back again, dying away at last into the other sounds. Cartouche came rushing along; Jack got up and shook himself.

“Must you go? We often sit out here until very late,” said Mrs Masters, rousing herself from a nap. “But you will come again?”

“Will you come to-morrow? We are going on a fig-eating