“Papa,” Rita said, putting her arms around him, “Mr. Oliver has managed everything, there is nothing to trouble yourself about. Mr. Henderson said so, and so did the man from Florence--that man, I forget his name.” A look of anguish came upon Mr. Bonamy’s face. To come under the reproof, or subject himself to the interference of the Consul-General at Florence, had always been the terror of his official life. He had kept the danger at bay hitherto, acting with great independence, and being permitted to do so in an astonishing way; but he had known, or thought he knew, that they were ready to pounce upon him at the first opportunity. The idea of a man from Florence was bitter to him beyond conception. A dark colour came over his face, a sort of purple hue, which made Rita wild with terror. “What--what--what?” he cried, stammering. Rita thought he was going to have another fit; she called out for Benedetta, Benedetta! and with anxious hands, caressing, yet half forcing him back upon his pillows, began to fan him with a great fan which lay on his sofa. He allowed her to lay him down, and perhaps the sight of her anxiety moved him to exert all his powers of self-control. He subdued the rising confusion of passionate mortification within him; in which effort he was helped by his weakness, which made any great convulsion of feeling impossible. By-and-bye he looked up at her with a half-smile. Benedetta had come at her call, and was bringing water and vinegar, and bandages of linen to put on his head. He waved all these appliances away with his hand. “Don’t be afraid, I am not going to be--worse,” he said feebly. “I may be bad enough, but not worse. When did the man from Florence come? Tell me everything now.” Then Rita, hesitating and faltering, told him the story of his illness, and all the long history burst confusedly upon his brain. He had thought he had been a few days, perhaps a week ill, and he had been six weeks. He had been preparing himself for a great deal to do when he should get well, and he found himself replaced, put aside. There were points in the story which consoled him. It was no man from Florence who had been doing his work--that was a wonderful comfort--but his own friend, the young fellow whom he had taken up and been kind to, who was the creature of his bounty. The Consul-General had not found a word to say; he had approved, and sanctioned, and authorised everything, and the character of Mr. Bonamy’s work had been kept up. He lay still and kept himself quiet, and listened to every word. Benedetta, who did not understand the English, stood by with all her appliances, her cold compresses, her bandages, the soft white folds of linen in which his hot forehead was to be bound. But the patient eluded her. He kept himself quiet in spite of all temptations.