"My Babbo has much better wine than _quel signore_," he said. "But that is wrong!" cried Goneril, quite shocked. "Who knows?" After this, conversation flagged. Goneril tried to imagine what a great musician could be like: long hair, of course; her imagination did not get much beyond the hair. He would, of course, be much older now than his portrait. Then she watched Angiolino cutting the corn, and learned how to tie the swathes together. She was occupied in this useful employment when the noise of wheels made them both stop and look over the wall. "Here's the padrone!" cried the boy. "Oh, he is old!" said Goneril; "he is old and brown, like a coffee-bean." "To be old and good is better than youth with malice," suggested Angiolino, by way of consolation. "I suppose so," acquiesced Goneril. Nevertheless she went in to dinner a little disappointed. The signorino was not in the house; he had gone up to the villa. But he had sent a message that later in the evening he intended to pay his respects to old friends. Madame Petrucci was beautifully dressed in soft black silk, old lace, and a white Indian shawl. Miss Prunty had on her starchiest collar and most formal tie. Goneril saw it was necessary that she, likewise, should deck herself in her best. She was too young and impressionable not to be influenced by the flutter of excitement and interest which filled the whole of the little cottage. Goneril, too, was excited and anxious, although Signor Graziano had seemed so old and like a coffee-bean. She made no progress in the piece of embroidery she was working as a present for the two old ladies; jumping up and down to look out of the window. When, about eight o'clock, the door-bell rang, Goneril blushed, Madame Petrucci gave a pretty little shriek, Miss Prunty jumped up and rang for the coffee. A moment afterwards the signorino entered. While he was greeting her hostesses, Goneril cast a rapid glance at him. He was tall for an Italian; rather bent and rather grey; fifty at least, therefore very old. He certainly was brown, but his features were fine and good, and he had a distinguished and benevolent air that somehow made her think of an abbe, a French abbe of the last century. She could quite imagine him saying "Enfant de St. Louis; montez au ciel!" Thus far had she got in her meditations, when she felt herself addressed in clear, half-mocking tones-- "And how, this evening, is Madamigella Ruth?" So he had seen her this evening, binding his corn. "I am quite well, padrone," she said, smiling shyly. The two old ladies looked on amazed, for of course they were not in the secret. "Signor Graziano, Miss Goneril Hamelyn," said Miss Prunty, rather severely.