We walked right through the house into a great quadrangle surrounded on three sides by buildings and on the fourth, towards the rising hill, by an arcade. On a pedestal in the centre of the court stood a more than life-sized marble statue, representing, my hostess informed me, the penultimate Prince of Massa Carrara, wearing a very curly full-bottomed wig, Roman kilts, buskins, and one of those handsome classical breastplates which have the head of a Gorgon embossed in the middle of the chest and a little dimple to indicate the position of the navel in the middle of the round and polished belly. With the expression of one who is about to reveal a delightful secret and who can hardly wait until the moment of revelation comes to give vent to his pleasure, Mrs. Aldwinkle, smiling as it were below the surface of her face, led me to the foot of the statue. “Look!” she said. It was one of those pretty peep-shows on which, for the sake of five minutes’ amusement and titillation of the eye, Grand Monarchs used to spend the value of a rich province. From the central arch of the arcade a flight of marble steps climbed up to where, set against a semicircle of cypresses, at the crest of the hill, a little round temple played gracefully at paganism, just as the buskined and corseleted statue in the court below played heroically at Plutarch. “And now look here!” said Mrs. Aldwinkle; and taking me round to the other side of the statue, she led me towards a great door in the centre of the long range of buildings opposite the arcade. It was open; a vaulted corridor, like a tunnel, led clean through the house. Through it I could see the blue sky and the remote horizon of the sea. We walked along it; from the further threshold I found myself looking down the flight of steps which I had seen from below, at the entrance gate. It was a stage scene, but made of solid marble and with growing trees. “What do you think of that?” asked Mrs. Aldwinkle. “Magnificent,” I answered, with an enthusiasm that was beginning to be tempered by a growing physical weariness. “Such a view,” said Mrs. Aldwinkle, poking at it with the tip of her sunshade. “The contrast between the cypresses and the olive trees....” “But the view’s still lovelier from the temple,” said the little niece, who was evidently very anxious to make me realise the full pricelessness of her Aunt Lilian’s possessions. Mrs. Aldwinkle turned on her. “How utterly thoughtless you are!” she said severely. “Do try to remember that poor Mr. Chelifer is still suffering from the effects of his accident. And you expect him to go climbing up to the temple!” The little niece blushed and drooped beneath the reproach. We sat down. “How are you feeling now?” asked Mrs. Aldwinkle, remembering once more to be solicitous.... “Too appalling to think,” she added, “how nearly.... And I’ve always so enormously admired your work.”