"Goneril is a very simple girl," said Miss Hamelyn. "So it's she that's called Goneril?" "Yes," said the aunt, making an effort. "Of course I am aware of the strangeness of the name, but--but in fact my brother was devotedly attached to his wife, who died at Goneril's birth." "Whew!" whistled Miss Prunty. "The parson must have been a fool who christened her!" "He did, in fact, refuse; but my brother would have no baptism saving with that name, which, unfortunately, it is impossible to shorten." "I think it is a charming name!" said Madame Petrucci, coming to the rescue. "Goneril: it dies on one's lips like music! And if you do not like it, Brigida, what's in a name? as your charming Byron said." "I hope we shall make her happy," said Miss Prunty. "Of course we shall!" cried the elder lady. "Goneril is easily made happy," asserted Miss Hamelyn. "That's a good thing," snapped Miss Prunty; "for there's not much here to make her so!" "Oh, Brigida! I am sure there are many attractions. The air! the view! the historic association! and, more than all, you know there is always a chance of the Signorino!" "Of whom?" said Miss Hamelyn, rather anxiously. "Of him!" cried Madame Petrucci, pointing to the engraving opposite. "He lives, of course, in the capital; but he rents the villa behind our house--the Medici Villa; and when he is tired of Rome he runs down here for a week or so; and so your Gonerilla may have the benefit of _his_ society!" "Very nice, I'm sure!" said Miss Hamelyn, greatly relieved; for she knew that Signor Graziano must be fifty. "We have known him," went on the old lady, "very nearly thirty years. He used to largely frequent the _salon_ of our dear, our cherished Madame Lilli." The tears came into the old lady's eyes. No doubt those days seemed near and dear to her; she did not see the dust on those faded triumphs. "That's all stale news!" cried Miss Prunty, jumping up. "And Gon'ril (since I'll have to call her so) must be tired of waiting in the garden." They walked out on the terrace. The girl was not there; but by the gate into the olive-yard, where there was a lean-to shed for tools, they found her sitting on a cask, whittling a piece of wood and talking to a curly-headed little contadino. Hearing steps, Goneril turned round. "He was asleep," she said. "Fancy, in such beautiful weather!" Then, remembering that two of the ladies were strangers, she made an old-fashioned little curtsey. "I hope you won't find me a trouble, ladies," she said. "She is charming!" said Madame Petrucci, throwing up her hands. Goneril blushed; her hat had slipped back and showed her short brown curls of hair, strong, regular, features, and flexile scarlet mouth, laughing upwards like a faun's. She had sweet dark eyes, a little too small and narrow. "I mean to be very happy," she exclaimed. "Always mean that, my dear," said Miss Prunty.