“The only figure on Olympus whom I have always regarded as being purely mythical,” Mr. Cardan went on, “as having no foundation in the facts of life, is Athena. A goddess of wisdom—a _goddess_!” he repeated with emphasis. “Isn’t that a little too thick?” Majestically Mrs. Aldwinkle rose from the table. “Let us go out into the garden,” she said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IV Mrs. Aldwinkle had even bought the stars. “How bright they are!” she exclaimed, as she stepped out at the head of her little troop of guests on to the terrace. “And how they twinkle! How they palpitate! As though they were alive. They’re never like this in England, are they, Calamy?” Calamy agreed. Agreeing, he had found, was a labour-saving device—positively a necessity in this Ideal Home. He always tried to agree with Mrs. Aldwinkle. “And how clearly one sees the Great Bear!” Mrs. Aldwinkle went on, speaking almost perpendicularly upwards into the height of heaven. The Bear and Orion were the only constellations she could recognise. “Such a strange and beautiful shape, isn’t it?” It might almost have been designed by the architect of the Malaspina palace. “Very strange,” said Calamy. Mrs. Aldwinkle dropped her eyes from the zenith, turned and smiled at him, penetratingly, forgetting that in the profound and moonless darkness her charm would be entirely wasted. Miss Thriplow’s voice spoke softly, with a kind of childish drawl through the darkness. “They might be Italian tenors,” she said, “tremoloing away like that so passionately in the sky. No wonder, with those stars overhead, no wonder life tends to become a bit operatic in this country at times.” Mrs. Aldwinkle was indignant. “How can you blaspheme like that against the stars?” she said. Then, remembering that she had also bought Italian music, not to mention the habits and customs of the whole Italian people, she went on: “Besides, it’s such a cheap joke about the tenors. After all, this is the only country where _bel canto_ is still....” She waved her hand. “And you remember how much Wagner admired what’s-his-name....” “Bellini,” prompted the little niece as self-effacingly as possible. She had heard her aunt speak of Wagner’s admiration before. “Bellini,” repeated Mrs. Aldwinkle. “Besides, life isn’t operatic in Italy. It’s genuinely passionate.” Miss Thriplow was, for a moment, rather at a loss for an answer. She had a faculty for making these little jokes; but at the same time she was so very much afraid that people might regard her as merely clever and unfeeling, a hard and glittering young woman. Half a dozen smart repartees were possible, of course; but then she mustn’t forget that she was fundamentally so simple, so Wordsworthian, such a violet by a mossy stone—particularly this evening, in her shawl.