beside her, smiling at her
astonished look.

"We're very 'up to date,' as you say, in Milan," he laughed.

But Sophy could not read. She was too excited. She sat in a lazy, happy
trance gazing from the window.

The Marchesa dozed frankly. Bobby was sound as a top. Sophy had never
felt more keenly, vividly awake in her life. She began to day-dream.
And as she sat there, now glancing out of window, now watching the
pleasant smile which sleep had drawn on the Marchesa's face, now the
soles of Bobby's sturdy shoes protruding from under the arm of the seat
as he lay with his red curls on Miller's lap, now noticing how sharp-cut
was Amaldi's dark, irregular profile against the flashing green outside,
she found herself suddenly thinking:

"Suppose this dear, charming woman were my mother-in-law instead of Lady
Wychcote--suppose _he_ were my husband--suppose I were Sophy Amaldi
instead of Sophy Chesney--going for a happy summer to the Villa
Amaldi--sure of kindness, sure of sympathy, sure of love----"

This fancy did not form itself into regular phrases such as these, but
came in a flashing, involuntary impression. She started with dismay and
glanced around nervously. Amaldi was looking at her. She bent forward,
lifting up one of the papers that had fallen to the floor. Her hand
touched the Marchesa's foot. That lady started wide awake.

"Oh, _Dio_!" she exclaimed, glancing out. "We're nearly there! Marco, my
umbrella, please--and Mrs. Chesney's. You'd better tell the maids to get
ready."

She looked tenderly at Bobby. "What a shame to wake the _tousin_!" she
said.

Now they were rattling round a great haunch of mountain--the southern
flank of the Sasso di Ferro. They had reached Laveno. Lago Maggiore lay
before them. The lake spread milkily iridescent. The sky was the colour
of periwinkle, with towards the zenith a flight of silver cloud wings.
The glimpse of Alps beyond Baveno was a hush of violet. It was one of
those delicately veiled afternoons when the Lake is at its best. It
looked mysterious, promising, like the tempered beauty of a woman
beneath a gauzy _yashmak_.

Amaldi saw the maids and luggage safely on the little steamer that was
waiting at the _imbarcadero_. Sophy and Bobby were to go with the
Marchesa in the steam-launch.

As into a mirage the little launch shot forth across the Lake. Sophy sat
with Bobby in her arms.

But there was something wistful, faintly sorrowful in this aerial
beauty. There