"Oh, I am not blaming you!" replies she, with an obvious effort to resume her usual courteous manner. "Please do not think that I am blaming you. How could you help it?" "I thought you liked him." "Oh, so I do--so we both do!" cries the poor woman agitatedly. "That is the worst of it! If I did not like him, I should not mind; at least, I should not mind half so much." "I am very sorry," he begins; but she interrupts him. "Do not be sorry," she says remorsefully; "you have nothing to say to it. I do not know, I am sure"--looking gratefully at him through the rain--"why I am always regaling you with my worries; but you are so dependable--we both feel that you are so dependable." "Am I?" says he, with a melancholy air that does not argue much gratification at the compliment. "Do not be too sure of that." But she does not heed his disclaimer. "We have been so happy here," she goes on; "I do not mean _here_"--looking round with an involuntary smile at the envelope of wet vapour that encases them both--"but at Florence; so peacefully, blessedly happy, she and I--you do not know"--with an appealing touch of pathos--"what a dear little companion she is!--so happy that I naturally do not want our memory of the place to be spoilt by any painful _contretemps_. You can understand that, cannot you?" It is senseless of him; but yet, little as he can comprehend why it should be so, the idea of Byng's love being described as a "painful _contretemps_" presents itself not disagreeably to his mind. For whatever mysterious reason, it is apparent that even Byng's own mother cannot be much more adverse to his suit than is the lady before him. "I can perfectly enter into your feelings," he answers, with sympathetic gravity; "but do not you know that 'a watched pot never boils'? As long as you are looking for them, they will never appear; but the moment that your back is turned they will probably come round the corner at once." "I think it is the truest proverb in the world," she says, with an impatient sigh; but she allows him to guide her and her umbrella back to the inn. Burgoyne's prediction is not verified; probably he had no very great faith in it himself. Mrs. Le Marchant's back has, for the best part of an hour, been turned upon the mountain road, and the stragglers have not yet rejoined the main body. There has been plenty of time for Cecilia to be thoroughly dried, warmed, comforted, and restored to good humour; for the _vetturino_ to send in and ask whether he shall not put the horses to; for Amelia to exhaust all her little repertory of soothing hypotheses; for Mrs. Le Marchant to stray in restless misery from _salon_ to _salle-à-manger_ and back again, and for Burgoyne to pull gloomily at a large cigar in the hall by himself before at length the voices of the truants are heard.