“_Carina_, don’t trouble yourself about it. It has always been so in the spirit, if not in the letter,” said Mariuccia. “Figure to yourself Domenico or me letting in any one, any one that chose to come, to disturb the signor padrone! That would be impossible. It appears, however, that there is some one down there in the hotels to whom the padrone has a great objection, greater than to the others. It is no secret, nothing to trouble you. But ’Menico, though he is a good man, is not very wise. _Che!_ you know that as well as I.” “And what will you do if this gentleman will not pay any attention--if he comes in all the same? The English don’t understand what it means when you say you do not receive. You must say he is not in; he has gone out; he is not at home.” “_Che! che! che!_” cried Mariuccia; “little deceiver! But that would be a lie.” Frances shook her head. “Yes; I suppose so,” she said, with a troubled look; “but if you don’t say it, the Englishman will come in all the same.” “He will come in, then, over my body,” cried Mariuccia with a cheerful laugh, standing square and solid against the door. This gave the last impulse to Frances’ thoughts. She could not go on with her study of the palms. She sat with her pencil in her hand, and the colour growing dry, thinking all the afternoon through. It was very certain, then, that her father would not expose himself to another meeting with the strangers who called themselves his friends--innocent people who would not harm any one, Frances was sure. They were tourists--that was evident; and they might be vulgar--that was possible. But she was sure that there was no harm in them. It could only be that her father was resolute to shut out his past, and let no one know what had been. This gave her an additional impulse, instead of discouragement. If it was so serious, and he so determined, then surely there must be something that she, his only child, ought to know. She waited till the evening with a gradually growing excitement; but not until after dinner, after the soothing cigarette, which he puffed so slowly and luxuriously in the loggia, did she venture to speak. Then the day was over. It could not put him out, or spoil his appetite, or risk his digestion. To be sure, it might interfere with his sleep; but after consideration, Frances did not think that a very serious matter, probably because she had never known what it was to pass a wakeful night. She began, however, with the greatest caution and care. “Papa,” she said, “I want to consult you about something Tasie was saying.” “Ah! that must be something very serious, no doubt.” “Not serious, perhaps; but---- she wants to teach me to play.” “To play! What? Croquet? or whist, perhaps? I have always heard she was excellent at both.” “These are games, papa,” said Frances, with a touch of severity. “She means the piano, which is very different.”