"Good morning, Miss Barbara." He paused. Then, with an embarrassed wriggle of introduction he went on; a queer little falter came into his voice. "A real Chaucerian morning, Miss Barbara. A May-day morning--only it happens to be September. Nature is fresh and bright, and there is at least one specimen in this dream garden"--he wriggled more uncomfortably than ever, and there was a tremulous glitter in his round spectacle lenses of the poet's 'yonge fresshe folkes.' He bowed in her direction, smiled deprecatingly, and was silent. The remark, it seemed to him, now that he had finished speaking, was somehow not as good as he had thought it would be. Barbara laughed. "Chaucer! They used to make us read the _Canterbury Tales_ at school. But they always bored me. Are you going to bathe?" "Not before breakfast." Mr. Topes shook his head. "One is getting a little too old for that." "Is one?" Why did the silly old man always say 'one' when he meant 'I'? She couldn't help laughing at him. "Well, I must hurry, or else I shall be late for breakfast again, and you know how I catch it." She ran out, through the gate in the garden wall, across the beach, to the striped red-and-white bathing cabin that stood before the house. Fifty yards away she saw the Marchese Prampolini, still dripping from the sea, running up towards his bathing hut. Catching sight of her, he flashed a smile in her direction, gave a military salute. Barbara waved her hand, then thought that the gesture had been too familiar--but at this hour of the morning it was difficult not to have bad jolly manners--and added the corrective of a stiff bow. After all, she had only met him yesterday. Soon she was swimming out to sea, and, ugh! what a lot of horrible huge jelly-fish there were. Mr. Topes had followed her slowly through the gate and across the sand. He watched her running down from the cabin, slender as a boy, with long, bounding strides. He watched her go jumping with great splashes through the deepening water, then throw herself forward and begin to swim. He watched her till she was no more than a small dark dot far out. Emerging from his cabin, the marquis met him walking slowly along the beach, his head bent down and his lips slightly moving as though he were repeating something, a prayer or a poem, to himself. "Good morning, signore." The marquis shook him by the hand with a more than English cordiality. "Good morning," replied Mr. Topes, allowing his hand to be shaken. He resented this interruption of his thoughts. "She swims very well, Miss Buzzacott." "Very," assented Mr. Topes, and smiled to himself to think what beautiful, poetical things he might have said, if he had chosen. "Well, so, so," said the marquis, too colloquial by half. He shook hands again, and the two men went their respective ways.