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It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be
left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and
gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.
The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by
another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed
to be smiling across something.
She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared
through the curtains--curtains which smote one in the face, and
seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the
unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and
supported by 'Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her
daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the
Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even
more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the
solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really
Italy?
Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair,
which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was
talking to Mr.


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