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The signorino did not pay any attention to the latter part of this description, but he appeared to find the beginning very satisfactory.

“So he is only a boy,” he muttered to himself, and went away comparatively satisfied.

Goneril spent most of the day watching the road from Florence. She might not walk on the highway, but a steep short cut that joined the main road at the bottom of the hill was quite at her disposal. She walked up and down for more than an hour. At last she saw some one on the Florence road. She walked on quickly. It was the telegraph-boy.

She tore open the envelope and read: “Venice.–Exam. on Wednesday. Start at once. Arivederci.”

It was with very red eyes that Goneril went in to dinner.

“So the cousin hasn’t come?” said Miss Prunty, kindly.

“No; he had to go home at once for his examination.”

“I dare say he’ll come over again soon, my dear,” said that discriminating lady. She had quite taken Goneril back into her good graces.

They all sat together in the little parlor after dinner. At eight o’clock the door-bell rang. It was now seven weeks since Goneril had blushed with excitement when first she heard that ring, and now she did not blush.

The signorino entered. He walked very straight and his lips were set. He came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition.

“Mees Goneril,” he said, “will you come out on the terrace?–before it is too late,” he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty.

“Yes,” said Goneril; and they went out together.

“So the cousin did not come?” said the signorino.

“No.”

They went on a little way in silence together. The night was moon-lit and clear; not a wind stirred the leaves; the sky was like a sapphire, containing but not shedding light. The late oleanders smelled very sweet; the moon was so full that one could distinguish the peculiar grayish-pink of the blossoms.

“It is a lovely night!” said Goneril.

“And a lovely place.”

“Yes.”

Then a bird sang.

“You have been here just eight weeks,” said the signorino.

“I have been very happy.”

He did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said:

“Would you like to live here always?”

“Ah, yes! but that is impossible.”

He took her hand and turned her gently, so that her face was in the light.

“Dear Mees Goneril, why is it impossible?”

For a moment the young girl did not answer. She blushed very red, and looked brave.

“Because of Jack!” she said.

“Ah!”

“Nothing is settled,” added the young girl, “but it is no use pretending not to know.”

“It is no use,” he repeated, very sadly.

And then for a little while they listened to the bird.

“Mees Goneril,” said the signorino at last, “do you know why I brought you out here?”

“Not at all,” she answered.

It was a minute before he spoke again.

“I am going to Rome to-morrow,” he said, “and I wanted to bid you good-bye. You will sing to me to-night, as it will be the last time?”

“Oh, I hope not the last time!”

“Yes, yes,” he said, a little testily; “unless–and I pray it may not be so–unless you ever need the help of an old friend.”

“Dear Signor Graziano!”

“And now you will sing me my ‘Nobil Amore’?”

“I will do anything you like.”

The signorino sighed and looked at her for a minute. Then he led her into the little parlour, where Madame Petrucci was singing shrilly in the twilight.