Meanwhile Liddy, still more bewildered, stood at the door, and watched the approach of the two other persons, not glowing and happy like Rita, but miserable, as unaccustomed travellers, half dead after a succession of night journeys, cold, and sick, and out of heart, could be. She could scarcely recognise the spruce little Paolo, in the worn-out, fagged traveller, shivering in his big cloak, and trying in vain to satisfy the coachman with the money which he did not understand. “Five shilling, that is six francs twenty-five, six francs twenty-five, my good man--it is six francs twenty-five, all the world over,” he was saying, placing a solid French five-franc piece, with other moneys of the same coinage, in the driver’s hand, and scorning all remonstrances. “No, no; I am no foreigner--you you will not cheat me. I am not von,” cried Paolo, betrayed by excitement into inaccuracies which he had quite got the better of, “to be bullied. I am not von to pay too moche. I am English as you.” As for old Benedetta, who was the other companion of Rita’s journey, she was prostrate with cold and fatigue. She did nothing but weep and groan as she sank upon the first seat in the hall. “Ah, Signorina! oh, Signorina! Sono morto! sono morto!” she cried, while Paolo took off his hat, by this time somewhat battered, and smiled a forlorn smile, his teeth chattering as he spoke. “All things that have been spoken of the English climate are below the truth,” he said. “Miss Joscelyn will forgive me, I have the cold just in my bones; but Miss Joscelyn, and also, indeed, Signorina Rita, one is bound to say it, they bloom like the rose.” “Now, don’t be angry,” said Rita, walking her father-in-law in to the parlour door, which was slightly open, and through which she saw the glimmer of the fire, and the white cloth of the breakfast-table, and appearing before her astonished husband, like some mischievous spirit, in a glow of happiness and delight, “don’t be angry, Harry. I am going to telegraph directly to papa. I am perfectly well, and delighted with everything. I am not cold a bit. I am not tired. England, I always was sure of it, is just the place for me. Present me to your mother. Dear madam,” she cried, after a little pause of contemplation, dropping Joscelyn’s arm, and darting forward, “I see you are ill; you are all trembling with the emotions you have had this morning. And, I am sure, it is quite natural; you don’t want me to make them more. But kiss me once, please, for I know I shall love you. I am your Harry’s wife.” “Rita!” cried Harry, finding room at last to express his sentiments, “what, in the name of all that is foolish, brings you here?”