A slender old lady, over sixty, rather tall, in a brown silk skirt, and a white burnouse that showed the shrunken slimness of her arms, came eagerly forward. She was still rather pretty, with small refined features, large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow ringlets down her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago. "Oh, _dear_ Miss Hamelyn," she cried, "how _glad_ I am to see you. And have you brought your _charming_ young relation?" She spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and bountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an impression of insincerity. Yet it was said with truth that Giulia Petrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy. "Goneril is outside" said Miss Hamelyn. "How is Miss Prunty?" "Brigida? Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida. She is as usual fatiguing herself with our accounts." The old lady led the way into the darkened parlour. It was small and rather stiff. As one's eyes became accustomed to the dim green light one noticed the incongruity of the furniture; the horsehair chairs and sofa, and large accountant's desk with ledgers; the large Pleyel grand piano, a bookcase, in which all the books were rare copies or priceless MSS. of old-fashioned operas; hanging against the wall an inlaid guitar and some faded laurel crowns; moreover, a fine engraving of a composer, twenty years ago the most popular man in Italy; lastly, an oil-colour portrait, by Winterman, of a fascinating blonde, with very bare white shoulders, holding in her hands a scroll, on which were inscribed some notes of music, under the title Giulia Petrucci. In short, the private parlour of an elderly and respectable Diva of the year '40. "Brigida!" cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. "Brigida! our charming English friend is arrived!" "All right!" answered a strong hearty voice from upstairs. "I'm coming." "You must excuse me, dear Miss Hamelyn," went on Madame Petrucci. "You must excuse me for shouting in your presence, but we have only one little servant, and during this suffocating weather I find that any movement reminds me of approaching age." The old lady smiled, as if that time were still far ahead. "I am sure you ought to take care of yourself," said Miss Hamelyn. "I hope you will not allow Goneril to fatigue you." "Gonerilla! What a pretty name! Charming! I suppose it is in your family?" asked the old lady. Miss Hamelyn blushed a little, for her niece's name was a sore point with her. "It's an awful name for any Christian woman," said a deep voice at the door. "And pray who's called Goneril?" Miss Prunty came forward; a short, thick-set woman of fifty, with fine dark eyes, and, even in a Florentine summer, with something stiff and masculine in the fashion of her dress. "And have you brought your niece?" she said, turning to Miss Hamelyn. "Yes, she is in the garden." "Well; I hope she understands that she'll have to rough it here."