"Of course." Mrs. Topes nodded. "My nephew, the one who was a major during the war, volunteered in the last coal strike. He was sorry, I know, that it didn't come to a fight. 'Aunt Annie,' he said to me, when I saw him last, 'if there had been a fight we should have knocked them out completely--completely.'" In Aleppo, the Fascisti, malignant _and_ turbaned, were fighting, under the palm trees. Weren't they palm trees, those tufted green plumes? "What, no ice to-day? _Niente gelato?_" inquired Mr. Buzzacott as the maid put down the compote of peaches on the table. Concetta apologised. The ice-making machine in the village had broken down. There would be no ice till to-morrow. "Too bad," said Mr. Buzzacott. "_Troppo male, Concetta_." Under the palm trees, Barbara saw them: they pranced about, fighting. They were mounted on big dogs, and in the trees were enormous many-coloured birds. "Goodness me, the child's asleep." Mrs. Topes was proffering the dish of peaches. "How much longer am I to hold this in front of your nose, Barbara?" Barbara felt herself blushing. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, and took the dish clumsily. "Day-dreaming. It's a bad habit." "It's one we all succumb to sometimes," put in Mr. Topes deprecatingly, with a little nervous tremble of the head. "You may, my dear," said his wife. "I do not." Mr. Topes lowered his eyes to his plate and went on eating. "The marchese should be here at any moment now," said Mr. Buzzacott, looking at his watch. "I hope he won't be late. I find I suffer so much from any postponement of my siesta. This Italian heat," he added, with growing plaintiveness, "one can't be too careful." "Ah, but when I was with my father in India," began Mrs. Topes in a tone of superiority: "he was an Indian civilian, you know...." Aleppo, India--always the palm trees. Cavalcades of big dogs, and tigers too. Concetta ushered in the marquis. Delighted. Pleased to meet. Speak English? Yés, yéss. _Pocchino_. Mrs. Topes: and Mr. Topes, the distinguished antiquarian. Ah, of course; know his name very well. My daughter. Charmed. Often seen the signorina bathing. Admired the way she dives. Beautiful--the hand made a long, caressing gesture. These athletic English signorine. The teeth flashed astonishingly white in the brown face, the dark eyes glittered. She felt herself blushing again, looked away, smiled foolishly. The marquis had already turned back to Mr. Buzzacott. "So you have decided to settle in our Carrarese."