“I don't feel like singing to-day,” answered Lydia, immovably. Mrs. Erwin was about to urge her further, but other people came in,--some Jewish ladies, and then a Russian, whom Lydia took at first for an American. They all came and went, but Mr. Rose-Black remained in his corner of the sofa, and never took his eyes from Lydia's face. At last he went, and then Mr. Erwin looked in. “Is that beast gone?” he asked. “I shall be obliged to show him the door, yet, Josephine. You ought to snub him. He's worse than his pictures. Well, you've had a whole raft of folks today,--as your countrymen say.” “Yes, thank Heaven,” cried Mrs. Erwin, “and they're all gone. I don't want Lydia to think that I let everybody come to see me on Sunday. Thursday is my day, Lydia, but a few privileged friends understand that they can drop in Sunday afternoon.” She gave Lydia a sketch of the life and character of each of these friends. “And now I must tell you that your manner is very good, Lydia. That reserved way of yours is quite the thing for a young girl in Europe: I suppose it's a gift; I never could get it, even when I _was_ a girl. But you mustn't show any _hauteur_, even when you dislike people, and you refused to sing with _rather_ too much _aplomb_. I don't suppose it was noticed though,--those ladies coming in at the same time. Really, I thought Mr. Rose-Black and Colonel Pazzelli were trying to outstare each other! It was certainly amusing. I never saw such an evident case, Lydia! The poor cavaliere looked as if he had seen you somewhere before in a dream, and was struggling to make it all out.” Lydia remained impassive. Presently she said she would go to her room, and write home before dinner. When she went out Mrs. Erwin fetched a deep sigh, and threw herself upon her husband's sympathy. “She's terribly unresponsive,” she began. “I supposed she'd be in raptures with the place, at least, but you wouldn't know there was anything at all remarkable in Venice from anything she's said. We have met ever so many interesting people to-day,--the Countess Tatocka, and Lady Fenleigh, and Miss Landini, and everybody, but I don't really think she's said a word about a soul. She's too queer for anything.” “I dare say she hasn't the experience to be astonished from,” suggested Mr. Erwin easily. “She's here as if she'd been dropped down from her village.” “Yes, that's true,” considered his wife. “But it's hard, with Lydia's air and style and self-possession, to realize that she _is_ merely a village girl.” “She may be much more impressed than she chooses to show,” Mr. Erwin continued. “I remember a very curious essay by a French writer about your countrymen: he contended that they were characterized by a savage stoicism through their contact with the Indians.” “Nonsense, Henshaw! There hasn't been an Indian _near_ South Bradfield for two hundred years. And besides that, am _I_ stoical?”