He was his father's son as well--an Englishman. Up went his head. Cydonia should be his wife--the wife of plain Peter McTaggart. He swung round and marched out, more in love with her than ever! CHAPTER XVII A thaw had followed the long frost and from the South, on eager feet, came Primavera, hooded still but clasping pale buds to her breast. Birds sang as she glided by, anemones peered through the grass and in the olive trees young leaves danced in the sun like silver coins, tossed up by gay Mother Earth as ransom to the pirate Winter. Light poured down from the sapphire sky, gilding the ivory city of towers as McTaggart drove through the winding roads, the Marchesa, still muffled in furs, beside him. They had been to the borders of his estate, by vineyards planted on the slopes in terraces like a giant staircase, screened from the north by dark lines of cypresses, warped with the cruel wind; past fields of oranges and lemons, covered with screens of plaited reeds, to the agent's house where they had lunched and tasted later the olive oil, smooth and sweet, stored in huge jars, suggesting those of the "Forty Thieves." Now they were returning home, drowsy from the long day spent in the open air, happily tired, soothed by the motion of the carriage. A mischievous breeze played with the veil the Marchesa wore, of heavy crape, and every now and then McTaggart could catch a glimpse of her rounded chin and that flower-like mouth beneath the folds, vivid, alive and tantalizing. He watched for it, lazily, leaning back against the high, padded cushions, and, conscious suddenly of his gaze, she turned her head and broke the silence. "You are quite decided then, Pietro?" Her voice was sweetly disconsolate. "You will not come with me to Fiesole?" "I can't, really. I'm very sorry. I must be getting back to England"--a faint smile curved his lips. "I've important business there just now. I assure you I'd stay if I could." His aunt laughed, a trifle sharply. "That means a woman, I should say!--'Important business'--at your age. There never yet was a Maramonte who was happy unless he was playing with fire." Her dark eyes flashed through her veil an inquisitive glance, but he shook his head. He was not in a mood for confidences. Moreover, he knew that Cydonia's birth would hardly fulfil his aunt's requirements and dreaded a possible catechism. "It's your sister's villa, near Florence, where you are going, isn't it?" The Marchesa nodded lazily. "And beautiful..." she stirred herself--"it faces the Arno valley with a wide loggia due south. She's my eldest sister--I was the baby--and her daughter, Bianca, must be sixteen. There's no son--such a grief! My brother-in-law breaks his heart about it. He is a Florentine himself, with an old palazzo (now shut up) and some fine pictures near the Cascine." "You will be happy there?" asked Peter.