Carmela, with the Marchese on one side and Ronald on the other--both of which gentlemen were exchanging scowls of hate--was looking at the romantic coast of Spain as they steamed through the Straits. The rolling, green meadows--undulating, like the waves of the sea, with the glint of yellow sunlight on them made a charming picture, and, turning to the other side, she could see the granite peaks of the Ape's Head with wreaths of feathery clouds round it, and, a little farther back, the white houses of Ceuta. Add to this charming view, a bright sky, a fresh breeze, which made the white sails belly out before it, and two delightful young men to talk to, it was little to be wondered at that Carmela felt happy. "So these are the Pillars of Hercules?" she said, looking from one side of the strait to the other. "Yes," answered her cousin, "so the Greeks said. I don't think much of Hercules as an architect--do you?" "Indeed I do," replied Carmela, enthusiastically; "what can be grander than Gibraltar and the Ape's Head?" "They are not exactly alike," said Ronald, looking at Vassalla, "and the Marchese likes consistency." "Of course, I do," retorted Vassalla, with an angry flush on his cheek, "especially in women," with a significant look at his cousin. "Then my dear Matteo, you are sure to be disappointed," retorted Miss Cotoner, calmly, "for you'll never get it--the age of miracles is past my friend." Ronald laughed, and was rewarded by a scowl from the Marchese, and then Carmela, tired of keeping peace between these hot-headed young men, went off to talk to Mrs. Pellypop. Without doubt, there would have been high words between the rivals had not a steward come up to Ronald with a message that the captain wanted to see him. So Ronald retreated, leaving Vassalla in possession of the field, and the Marchese, seeing there was no chance of talking to Carmela, went off to solace himself with a cigarette. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pellypop received Carmela with an affectation of friendliness, and proceeded to question her in a Machiavellian manner. "What a pretty place Valletta is," said the matron, dropping her knitting and rubbing her plump white lands; "I suppose you know it very well?" "I ought to," answered the girl laughing; "I've lived there nearly all my life." "Yet you speak English well," said Mrs. Pellypop sceptically. "Yes, there are so many English people in Malta; and, besides, my mother was English." "Oh," thought Mrs. Pellypop, noticing the use of the past tense, "her mother is dead." "So you are going home to your mother's people I suppose?" she asked aloud. "Just on a visit," replied Carmela carelessly. "Indeed, they live in London I presume?" "No, at Marlow on the Thames." "Oh!" said Mrs. Pellypop, sitting up suddenly, "is that so? I am going down there myself on a visit to my son-in-law. He's the Bishop of Patagonia, my dear, and his parents live near Marlow. Mango is the name. I believe they are well known."