Mrs. Erwin seemed about to laugh, and then she looked embarrassed. “Why, Lydia,” she cried at last, “he didn't mean church; he meant--opera!” “Opera! Sunday night! Aunt Josephine, do you go to the theatre on Sabbath evening?” There was something appalling in the girl's stern voice. Mrs. Erwin gathered herself tremulously together for defense. “Why, of course, Lydia, I don't approve of it, though I never _was_ Orthodox. Your uncle likes to go; and if everybody's there that you want to see, and they will give the best operas Sunday night, what are you to do?” Lydia said nothing, but a hard look came into her face, and she shut her lips tight. “Now you see, Lydia,” resumed her aunt, with an air of deductive reasoning from the premises, “the advantage of having a bonnet on, even if it's only a make-believe. I don't believe a soul knew it. All those Americans had hats. You were the only American girl there with a bonnet. I'm sure that it had more than half to do with Lady Fenleigh's speaking to you. It showed that you had been well brought up.” “But I never wore a bonnet to church at home,” said Lydia. “That has nothing to do with it, if they thought you did. And Lydia,” she continued, “I was thinking while you were singing there that I wouldn't say anything at once about your coming over to cultivate your voice. That's got to be such an American thing, now. I'll let it out little by little,--and after Lady Fenleigh's quite taken you under her wing. Perhaps we may go to Milan with you, or to Naples,--there's a conservatory there, too; and we can pull up stakes as easily as not. Well!” said Mrs. Erwin, interrupting herself, “I'm glad Henshaw wasn't by to hear _that_ speech. He'd have had it down among his Americanisms instantly. I don't know whether it _is_ an Americanism; but he puts down all the outlandish sayings he gets hold of to Americans; he has no end of English slang in his book. Everything has opened _beautifully_, Lydia, and I intend you shall have the _best_ time!” She looked fondly at her brother's child. “You've no idea how much you remind me of your poor father. You have his looks exactly. I always thought he would come out to Europe before he died. We used to be so proud of his looks at home! I can remember that, though I was the youngest, and he was ten years older than I. But I always did worship beauty. A perfect Greek, Mr. Rose-Black calls me: you'll see him; he's an English painter staying here; he comes a _great_ deal.” “Mrs. Erwin, Mrs. Erwin!” called a lady's voice from a gondola behind them. The accent was perfectly English, but the voice entirely Italian. “Where are you running to?” “Why, Miss Landini!” retorted Mrs. Erwin, looking back over her shoulder. “Is that you? Where in the world are _you_ going?” “Oh, I've been to pay a visit to my old English teacher. He's awfully ill with rheumatism; but awfully! He can't turn in bed.”