“Who?” asked Leslie coolly, but something made her drop the shoe horn with which she was measuring out the tea, and then knock a cream puff from a heavy piece of china that had been designed to hold soap. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE FIESOLE, A CLEAR HOT DAY AND A COOL GARDEN April came in as gently and softly as a month could possibly come, and it held more loveliness than I had ever dreamed could be. The sun was growing too warm and, some days, the heat was oppressive and going out unwise; but most of the days were flawless jewels that began with brown which merged into green, topped and finished with the blue, blue sky. It was in the second week in April that we went up to Fiesole, that proud little town that perches on a high hill, and looks down so scornfully on the Florence that has always made war upon her. I had been there before with Sam, and we had gone up the winding road, to the place where there are relics of Roman baths and the remains of a Roman Temple and an open, half-circled Roman theater. But that had been in the winter, and now it was spring! Viola and I went up alone, for Leslie was out somewhere with Ben Forbes, who had arrived the night before. And all the way up Viola talked of Leslie’s getting married--and she wasn’t even engaged then--and of what she, Viola, would wear while _en tour_, which was what she called her traveling with Madame Heilbig--who had liked her playing, and instantly engaged her--and of how she, Viola, intended to go on and some day accompany some one who was really great, while I looked out at the country which was _so_ beautiful. I didn’t mind Viola’s talking very much, although I would have been glad to look on all that loveliness in silence, but I was glad, when we reached Fiesole--which is so high that it seems to cling uncertainly to the top of the hill--and found on reaching there that Viola went off with Mr. Wake, and that I walked with Sam. “And how’s everything?” he asked, after he had smiled down at me in the kindest way, and told me that he liked my broad hat which I had bought at the Mercato Nuovo for five lire which is now about twenty-five cents. “Better and better,” I answered, and then I told him all the news, as I always did when we met. We met a good deal too, but there always seemed to be a lot to say. It is like that when you are real friends. “Miss Bannister,” I said, “has had luck. A nephew of hers has lost his wife, which is hard on him, but fine for Miss Bannister, because he wants her to come to Devonshire and live in his house, and attend to giving the cook and what Miss Bannister calls ‘the scullery maid’ their orders. And he sent her ten pounds--how much is that, Sam?” “About fifty hard bones, dear,” he answered. (I was quite used to his calling me “dear,” and I liked it) “Well, that is all for clothes,” I stated, “and I’m going to help her buy them.”