“And you have to talk Americanisms if you're an American. You mustn't think your uncle isn't obliging, Lydia. He is. I oughtn't to have asked him to go to church,--it bores him so much. I used to feel terribly about it once, when we were first married. But things have changed very much of late years, especially with all this scientific talk. In England it's quite different from what it used to be. Some of the best people in society are skeptics now, and that makes it quite another thing.” Lydia looked grave, but she said nothing, and her aunt added, “I wouldn't have asked him, but I had a little headache, myself.” “Aunt Josephine,” said Lydia, “I'm afraid you're doing too much for me. Why didn't you let me come alone?” “Come alone? To church!” Mrs. Erwin addressed her in a sort of whispered shriek. “It would have been perfectly scandalous.” “To go to church alone?” demanded Lydia, astounded. “Yes. A young girl mustn't go _any_where alone.” “Why?” “I'll explain to you, sometime, Lydia; or rather, you'll learn for yourself. In Italy it's very different from what it is in America.” Mrs. Erwin suddenly started up and bowed with great impressiveness, as a gondola swept towards them. The gondoliers wore shirts of blue silk, and long crimson sashes. On the cushions of the boat, beside a hideous little man who was sucking the top of an ivory-handled stick, reclined a beautiful woman, pale, with purplish rings round the large black eyes with which, faintly smiling, she acknowledged Mrs. Erwin's salutation, and then stared at Lydia. “Oh, you may look, and you may look, and you may look!” cried Mrs. Erwin, under her breath. “You've met more than your match at last! The Countess Tatocka,” she explained to Lydia. “That was her palace we passed just now,--the one with the iron balconies. Did you notice the gentleman with her? She always takes to those monsters. He's a Neapolitan painter, and ever so talented,--clever, that is. He's dead in love with her, they say.” “Are they engaged?” asked Lydia. “Engaged!” exclaimed Mrs. Erwin, with her shriek in dumb show. “Why, child, she's married!” “To _him_?” demanded the girl, with a recoil. “No! To her husband.” “To her husband?” gasped Lydia. “And she--” “Why, she isn't quite well seen, even in Venice,” Mrs. Erwin explained. “But she's rich, and her _conversazioni_ are perfectly brilliant. She's very artistic, and she writes poetry,--Polish poetry. I _wish_ she could hear you sing, Lydia! I know she'll be frantic to see you again. But I don't see how it's to be managed; her house isn't one you can take a young girl to. And _I_ can't ask her: your uncle detests her.” “Do you go to her house?” Lydia inquired stiffly. “Why, as a foreigner, _I_ can go. Of course, Lydia, you can't be as particular about everything on the Continent as you are at home.”