Fanchette was chattering to Aquaviva, like the intolerable magpie he thought her, when a couple, issuing from the orange grove, came into her ken approaching up a flowery path. She was silent instantly--a relief so grateful to the old gardener, that he was moved to raise his head from his work to examine into the cause of it. He grunted his satisfaction: “That is a mercy. You will attend to your own duties now instead of interfering with mine.” Fanchette tossed her head. “What an old bear, to be sure! I shall have to withdraw my patronage.” “Do,” said Aquaviva. “It will be the better for my reputation.” She would have retorted, only that she was intent on other things. As the couple came near, she ran to her mistress, and smoothed and fondled her with a privileged intimacy. “Ah! you have been exploring, you bad demoiselle, careless, as always, of your poor Fanchette’s credit. Look at the moss stains on your skirt, and the flower crushed in your bosom! And the sun has caught your neck and face, too, naughty mistress.” As she readjusted things with dainty fluttering fingers, she just glanced with an arch smile at Tiretta--a little telegraphic signal, full of comprehension and meaning. He looked away immediately. “There, that will do, Fanchette,” said Isabella, flushing finely. “It is time we went home, is it not? What is grandfather doing there?” “He is doing something horrible, disgusting. You will not like to see it.” More to escape an embarrassment than from any awakened curiosity, Isabella walked on. Tiretta, dropping behind a moment, whispered in the maid’s ear: “Little liar!” “If you please, monsieur,” murmured Fanchette demurely. “She never expected me.” “Did I not say so?” “You implied that she did.” “And was that why you came?” He drew up, baffled. She gave a tiny laugh. “It was to convince me of the wickedness of my innuendo, was it not?” she whispered. “Well, I am convinced, monsieur.” He had better have been silent from the first. She put a finger to her lips. “Hush!” she said. “You can trust in me--you can always trust in me.” He should have answered; should have repudiated, then and finally, the implication. He hesitated--and the next moment they had overtaken the Infanta, where she had paused beside the old perfumer. “Grandfather, what is that in your hand?” The old man rose, groaning as he straightened his back. He held by the handle a lipped vessel, half-full of a sluggish ruby liquid. “You should know,” he said. “It is what your loved oranges grow rich and fat on.” “Not blood?” “Bullocks’ blood.” Isabella, with an exclamation of horror, shrunk back. “Those are not oranges, my friend,” said Tiretta. He pointed to a row of little shrubs or herbs, set in earthenware jars against a sunny wall. They were green and bushy, and the vessels were of many colours, fancifully designed and decorated.