that she liked it best; but he was very far
indeed from understanding why.

"What is it, Paul?"

"Pardon, miladi, but Sir John, on awaking
from his siesta, demanded to know
where you were; and when I told him that
I supposed you were beneath the accustomed
cypress, sent me to pray you to come in."

Paul spoke in Italian—which was nearly
as much a foreign language as English to
his Piedmontese tongue—and addressed her
with perfect respect, but with an indefinable
air of taking it for granted that she
would comply with any expressed wish of
Sir John's, which grated on the sensitive
soreness of her haughty spirit.

"I am very well here, and shall remain,"
said Veronica, briefly. Then she turned
her eyes away (she had never relinquished
her careless attitude) and seemed to
dismiss him from her thoughts.

"It is bad to stay here in the heat,
miladi," returned Paul. He spoke with
the same calm, imperturbable air of
knowing his duty and doing it, which he had
assumed towards Sir John Gale in the
most irritable moments of his illness.

"I am in the shade," said Veronica.
And when she had said it, she bit her lip
at having been betrayed into what seemed
like an excuse or apology.

Paul gravely unfurled a huge yellow
sunshade lined with purple, which he had
brought with him. It was characteristic
of the man, and of the perfect sense he had
of his own position, that, albeit his bare
head was scorching in the glare, he had
never thought of unfurling the sunshade for
his own use.

It came into the month's wages to endure
personal inconvenience of some sort. A
little roasting, a little freezing, a little
wetting—what mattered? There was that
village up in the Alps, and there were the
two boys waiting to be educated to a point
that would make them independent of such
disagreeable exertions and sacrifices.

Paul put up the yellow umbrella, and
held it over Veronica's head; he seemed
so absolutely certain that she would get up
off the ground and come with him into the
house, that she rose as though some spell
were moving her limbs. Suddenly the
wilful, spoiled-child mood came upon her,
and she threw herself down again beneath
the tree, saying, "Go and get me some
cushions and a shawl. I shall stay here.
I am enjoying the view."

"In the evening, signora—miladi—it is
very fine here. Now, the sun will burn your
skin, and spoil your eyes. It is not like in
England, miladi; at this hour in the summer,
even up on a height like this, it is not good
to be out in the sunshine. It makes the
women look old soon. See our contadine!"

With this masterly stroke, Paul gravely
bent down, hat in hand, and held his arm
out for Veronica to lean on when she should
rise—and she did rise.

Paul walked a pace behind her holding
the umbrella, and they proceeded towards
the house. Instead of passing beneath the
pergola, they turned on reaching the old
fountain—where their footsteps disturbed
the snake, that slid away at their approach
into the dry grass—to the left, and entered
a path leading through a shrubbery.
Here the walks were neat, the grass
clipped, and the flowers duly tended. The
grounds had not the fresh perfection of an
English garden. There was a want of
finish about all the details —the finish that
comes from doing thoroughly whatever is
done—but nature had filled the place with
light, and colour, and perfume, and it was
very lovely. At a turn in the path the
house came in view. Villa Chiari was an
old and vast building, solid, heavy, and
with few windows in proportion to the
great extent of wall-space. This circumstance,
which would make a house gloomy
in a northern climate, is suggestive only of
grateful shade and coolness, to a dweller
beneath Italian skies. Wealth had been
unsparingly employed within the Villa to
make it a comfortable and luxurious
residence, in accordance with modern English
ideas of what is comfortable and luxurious:
but without, Villa Chiari remained much
as it had been any time these three
hundred years. It was covered with yellowish
plaster. Situated as the house was, on a
height, and fronting to the north, it had
become much stained by wind and weather.
The plaster was discoloured, cracked, and,
in some places, had peeled off altogether,
revealing a rough solid wall constructed of
mingled brick and stone, after the Tuscan
fashion. To each window were double
wooden shutters or jalousies, painted green.
These were open on the side of the house
that was in shadow, and were carefully closed
whenever the sun's rays beat against them
like a flight of burning arrows. All the
windows on the basement story were
protected against more earthly assailants, by
massive wrought-iron bars.

Immediately beneath each of the lower
windows was a stone bench, the sad, grey
colour of which was diversified by bright