expedition with the Moronis. We shall start at about four,” said Bice, “and go to their farm.”

“I will be here without fail,” said the young man eagerly. He went away into the cool dusky shadows in a sort of bewilderment; there had been something so unlooked-for and novel in this little episode, that it impressed him more than a hundred more important things. The questions he had half forgotten came forward again. Who were they? What had brought them there?

“Buona notte, signore.”

It was old Andrea the cook, who was standing smoking a cigar at the entrance gate, and probably on the look-out for a little gossip.

“A fine vintage this year. The signore has without doubt seen our vintage? No? Is it possible? Then he will do so this September. The padrona’s grapes will be brought to be weighed next week; the signorine will take the signore to see them cut. Eh, eh, the signorina Beatrice can tell him everything. See here, she has a head as good as my own, though I say it. It is wonderful, a young girl like that, whom I have nursed on my knee many and many a time. Sometimes, when I hear her giving her orders, I stare, I cannot believe it. But then she is one of us, which explains it,” added the old man with pride.

“Do you mean that she is not English?” asked Jack, interested in this confirmation of the ideas which had been floating about in his head since the first moment of seeing Bice.

Old Andrea shook his head vehemently.

“No, no, no,” he said, “not the signorina. Her father was a Capponi; she is a Capponi, anyone can see that who looks in her eyes, if the signore will excuse me for saying so. She is a Capponi all over.”

“But she told me she was English,” said Jack, amused at the old man’s indignation.

“She has whims, though she is so clever,” said Andrea testily. “Most of the clever ones have. Her mother is English, if you will—what of that? And possibly the padrone did not treat her over well—who knows? He was a man who liked his own way, and perhaps did not much care how he got it. Altro! The signore knows that men are not all made in the same fashion, and the Capponi were used to being masters. At any rate, he is dead.”

“And his wife?”

“Si, signore, as you see. She married again, before the stone that covers his grave up at San Miniato had time to lose its whiteness. I go there sometimes. There are not many others that remember. But as I was saying, the signora married quickly, and this time it was to a stranger—an Englishman—with two children.”

“Two?”

“Two. There is a young man in some country of strangers, very probably it is England, and the signore has perhaps brought news of him? No? Ah, then he will see him on his return. That will delight the signorina, for she has given her heart to these newcomers. But for all that she cannot help being a Capponi, and no one can mistake her. Such a padrona as she makes! Such a head, such a head! Only ask them at the podere what it is like. The signore goes to Florence?”

“Yes,” said Jack, who had been lighting his cigar. “I suppose there is no shorter road than down this hill?”

“If the signore can keep in his dog he can branch off through the vineyards to the left. I will show him the path in a moment, and it will be much quicker.”

Andrea, delighted at this chance of a gossip, talked on as they went down the hill. It was chiefly loyal, admiring homage to the signorina which filled his mind, and Ibbetson was interested in the ideas he gathered of a homely and simple life, unlike that of which he was accustomed to think. When he parted from Andrea, it seemed to him as if he had known Bice for months instead of hours; a curious charm already hovered about her, and the remembrance of the wistful looks which sometimes crossed her face like a contradiction. He left the old man standing in the road, and turned off into the steep and stony track which had been pointed out to him as his path. No one was visible when he got among the vines, but following Andrea’s advice, he kept the unwilling Cartouche close by his side, and walked quickly, for it was growing late, though a bright moon made the blue sky clear. The air was light and fresh. A few olive trees, twisted and gnarled, bordered the path, their grey leaves catching the light like silver; then the Arno came into sight flooded with radiance; presently the twinkling lights of Florence gleamed out from dark masses of building, and cupola, and tower, and one larger blot which marked the Duomo of Our Lady of Flowers. All over the plain these lights glittered, faintly bright, here far apart, here tremulously disclosing themselves to the eye, as shyly as the stars of heaven itself. When Ibbetson reached the city streets he felt as if he had left enchantment behind him. The thoughts which had troubled him the evening before, now did not once intrude. Hetherton might never have been, and the charm of Italy was at work.