"It is nearly seven o'clock, I see," said the elder girl, glancing carelessly at it. "Kitty, tell Pasquale to set another place; of course you will dine with us," she added, turning to the young Englishman, "but please to come to the breakfast-room, mamma is sure to be there." As she spoke she opened a door which led into another and smaller salon, and from this they went through another. Both had inlaid floors and marble tables; in one a couple of marble statues stood looking sadly and reproachfully, so Jack fancied, at the girl who went quickly by without so much as glancing towards them, her beautiful face eager, her cheeks glowing. There were no statues in the second room, only black negro boys holding flower-stands; but the stands were empty, and evidently the rooms were uninhabited, and even on this day a little dreary. It was different with the little room to which they led; there all the available furniture had been gathered. It was not very handsome, but a pretty homelike air hung about everything. A glass door opened on steps which went down to a gay little flower-garden, and were shaded by a weeping willow, while from some unseen source there came a pleasant refreshing sound of bubbling water. In a low chair near the window sat a lady who had probably been asleep, from the bewildered air with which she looked up, and Jack's companion evidently thought so too, for she gave a little impatient pat upon her shoulder. "Wake up, mamma, we have got something quite new for you to-day," she began in the tone in which one would offer a toy to a spoiled child. "Here is an English gentleman who is going to dine with us. I dare say you have just come from England, and know about things?" she continued, addressing him. Jack felt an irresistible inclination to laugh, and yet there was something in the little scene which touched him. He had been taken possession of without much freedom of action being permitted him, and now was expected to play off his tunes like a wound-up barrel organ. But it was impossible not to see that the girl was free from any thought of self, and as she made this last appeal the wistfulness in the beautiful brown eyes went to his heart. He was going to speak, but she interrupted him. "Wait a moment," she said quite gravely, "I had forgotten. This is Mr Ibbetson, mamma. Mr Ibbetson--Mrs Masters." Her mother put out her hand languidly. "Beatrice is original in her introductions, but she knows that anyone who can tell me about my own country is welcome at Villa Carlina," she said.