"My name is Ibbetson, John Ibbetson," said the young man laughing, and yet reddening slightly. "You are quite right in supposing that I am English, but will you pardon me if I ask whether you can possibly be my country people?" "I am," said the younger girl shyly, and her sister turned upon her a reproachful look. "And I, too," she said quickly. "What makes you doubt it? English people often live abroad, as you must know. We are called Masters, my mother is in the house, and you will come in to see her, of course." Jack muttered something about his dress and the dust, but the girl shook her head imperatively. "That does not matter in the least. We live here alone and see nobody, that is why I wish you to go in; I know it is not good for mamma to be so solitary, and have no one but us. Kitty and I often talk about it, but what can we do? There are only the gardeners, and old Andrea, the cook, and the people at the farm, and she does not care about the farm. We brought the turkeys back to-day just for a little amusement." "And I was so unfortunate as to be the cause of putting an end to it." "Yes," said the girl gravely, "but never mind. Your coming to see her will be better, perhaps. This way, please." Ibbetson followed, half amused and half piqued. It was quite evident that he was only looked upon as a new and possible means of entertainment where other means were wanting, and yet the girl's manner was so simple and frank that it was impossible to feel offended. And the brightness, the unconventionality of the scene charmed him. The air was full of wonderful gleaming lights, of sweet scents. Every line of the old villa seemed in harmony with the rich colouring about it; so were the sisters in their cool white dresses. It was all strange and yet familiar, and he followed, wondering what new features would presently disclose themselves, whether it was to end in a fairy tale or plainest English prose. Cartouche, fortunately still a little subdued by the consciousness of misdoing, was tied into a thicket of scarlet geraniums by the side of the entrance, then Kitty pushed the heavy door, and passing through a small marble-paved hall, opened another door leading into an immense salon, perhaps fifty feet long. To English eyes it looked but barely furnished, but it was cool and well shaded; two large windows opened on a terrace, and there, on a white marble table, under the shade of a magnificent paulownia tree, was spread the dinner service. It was like a feast in Boccaccio, Jack thought, after the stuffy table-d'hotes and the stuffier dining-room at Hetherton--stands of bright flowers, piles of rosy peaches, grapes full of lustrous colour, plums, figs heaped on their dishes, and two or three green melons lying in the midst of this gay confusion of colour.