When she thought of it, Mrs Gaunt’s youngest boy was nothing at all to her; nor did she care very much whether all the English in the hotels on the Marina went to church. But Mrs Gaunt was interested in the one, and the Durants in the other. And was it true what Constance said, that she was a humbug, that she was a deceiver, because she pretended to care? Frances was much confused by this question. There was something in it: perhaps it was true. She faltered as she replied, “Do you think it is wrong to sympathise? It is true that I don’t feel all that for myself. But still it is not false, for I do feel it for them--in a sort of a way.” “And that is all the society you have here? the clergywoman and the old soldier. And will they expect me, too, to feel for them--in a sort of a way?” “Dear Constance,” said Frances, in a pleading tone, “it could never be quite the same, you know; because you are a stranger, and I have known them ever since I was quite a little thing. They have all been very kind to me. They used to have me to tea; and Tasie would play with me; and Mrs Gaunt brought down all her Indian curiosities to amuse me. Oh, you don’t know how kind they are! I wonder, sometimes, when I see all the carved ivory things, and remember how they were taken out from under the glass shades for me, a little thing, how I didn’t break them, and how dear Mrs Gaunt could trust me with them! And then Tasie----” “Tasie! What a ridiculous name! But it suits her well enough. She must be forty, I should think.” “Her right name is Anastasia. She is called after the Countess of Denrara, who is her godmother,” said Frances, with great gravity. She had heard this explanation a great many times from Mrs Durant, and unconsciously repeated it in something of the same tone. Constance received this with a sudden laugh, and clapped her hands. “I didn’t know you were a mimic. That is capital. Do Tasie now. I am sure you can; and then we shall have got a laugh out of them at least.” “What do you mean?” asked Frances, growing pale. “Do you think I would laugh at them? When you know how really good they are----” “Oh yes; I suppose I shall soon know,” said Constance, opening her mouth in a yawn, which Frances thought would have been dreadful in any one else, but which, somehow, was rather pretty in her. Everything was rather pretty in her, even her little rudenesses and impertinences. “If I stay here, of course I shall have to be intimate with them, as you have been. And must I take a tender interest in the youngest boy? Let us see! He will be a young soldier probably, as his mother is an old one, and as he is coming from India. He will never have seen any one. He is bound to take one of us for a goddess, either you or me.” “Constance!” cried Frances, in her consternation raising her voice.