Peronella, who had discarded her white frock and now appeared in what had better only be described as her "Sunday Best," blushed modestly and hung her head beautifully. Norman, however, was not pleased, but rather disappointed to find she was not the peasant girl he had thought her, but a half-educated young lady with ideas. Troubled, he looked at her again. She was still there, still beautiful, still charming; but, alas! how the spell of the morning was broken! The nymph who stood before him, the very spirit of Nature, some few hours ago had had lessons in geography and fancy needlework, could even play the piano. She had almost the same accomplishments as those he and all Blaindon had admired in the pretty daughter of Mr Apple. And yet she was there opposite him, still beautiful, still charming.... Soon after dinner the old lady declared herself sleepy and departed, admonishing Peronella not to stay up too late. "That's just like mother," said the girl. "What?" "She's taken a fancy to you all at once and goes off, leaving me alone with you as if you were a pet lamb instead of a...." "Lascivious lion," suggested Norman. "By the way, Peronella...." "Yes." "Peronella, have you any more lovers?" "How fond you are of repeating my name! Of course I have. Do I look as if I hadn't? He is called Cesano. He will be coming soon. He will certainly try to kill you. Do you mind?" "What?" "Being killed." "Of course, I should hate it." "You silly fellow. I mean, you aren't afraid?" "I am deadly afraid of being killed, so soon after meeting you." "Would you kill somebody for me if I asked you to?" "Yes, unless I was likely to be hanged for it." "I don't believe you're at all brave, or very fond of me, after all." "I am rather frightened of you, Peronella, at all events." Some time after, a ring at the bell interrupted some similar inane, mock-passionate conversation. "You were talking about my lovers, dear Normano," said the girl. "If you want to see one, you have only to wait here while I open the door. Now, if that's Cesano, as I suppose it is, there will be fireworks. Be careful, Normano; he's a rival. Alsandrian lovers are not like English. They have hot blood in their veins. Listen, how he rings. He is angry already. Oh, Normano, go into your bedroom. It would be dangerous for you to stay here--" "Nonsense; I have come to stay. Do you think I am frightened? I am longing to see this very passionate man and to learn how I ought to make love." She undid the door and Cesano entered. He was a dark individual, a few years older than Norman, with a bulging forehead, and a black moustache. He looked very much like an English maidservant's idea of a typical Spaniard, being, furthermore, dressed in one of those horrible colour-combinations in velvet and silk that we English, perhaps the best-dressed people in the world, find so charmingly picturesque and so essentially artistic.