The departure of Costanza, her boxes and her maid, was of course the great event of the afternoon. The three gentlemen and Annunziata drove with her to the station, and I was left behind with my pupil and her mother. A stiff bow from Costanza, a glare through her double eyeglass, and a contemptuous "Good-bye, Miss," in English, had not tended to raise my spirits. To be an object of universal dislike was an experience as new as it was unpleasant, and I was losing confidence in myself with every hour. Even Bianca had deserted me, and, ensconced close to her mother, shot glances at me of her early curiosity and criticism. As for the Marchesa, that inscrutable person scarcely stopped talking all the afternoon, rattling on in her dry, colourless way about nothing at all. Speech was to her the shield and buckler which silence is to persons less gifted. Behind her own volubility she could withdraw as behind a bulwark, whence she made observations safe from being herself observed. I was quite worn out by eight o'clock, when the usual Sunday visitors began to arrive. With my work in my hand, I sat on the outskirts of the throng, not working indeed, but pondering deeply. "Miss Meredith, you are very industrious." There before me stood Andrea, a very obstinate look on his face, unmindful of Annunziata's proximity and Romeo's scowls. "As it happens, I haven't put in a stitch for the last ten minutes," I answered quietly, though my heart beat. He drew a chair close to mine. "You are unfair, Andrea, you are unfair," I thought, "to make things worse for Miss Meredith by singling her out in this way, when you know it makes them all so cross. Things are bad enough for her as it is, and you might forego your little bit of amusement." I began really to stitch with unnatural industry, bending an unresponsive face over the work in my hand. "That is very pretty," said Andrea. "No, no, Marchesino," I thought again, "you are as good as gold, any one could see that from your eyes; but you have a little weakness, only one--'the ladies'--and you must not be encouraged." I turned to Annunziata, who, baffled by the English speech, sat perplexed and helpless. "Marchesina," I said aloud in Italian, "the Marchesino admires my work." "I taught her how to do it," cried Annunziata, breaking into a smile. "See, it is not so easy to draw the fine gold thread through the leather, but she is an apt pupil." "Miss Meredith, I am sorry to see you looking so pale." Andrea dropped his voice very low, adhering obstinately to English and fixing his eyes on mine. "I haven't been out to-day." "What, wasting this glorious weather indoors. Is it possible that you are falling into the worst of our Italian ways?" "I generally go for a walk." I rose as I spoke, and turned to the Marchesina. "I am so tired; do you think I may be excused?" "Certainly, dear child."