employment when the noise of wheels made them both stop and look over
the wall.

"Here's the padrone!" cried the boy.

"Oh, he is old!" said Goneril; "he is old and brown, like a
coffee-bean."

"To be old and good is better than youth with malice," suggested
Angiolino, by way of consolation.

"I suppose so," acquiesced Goneril.

Nevertheless she went in to dinner a little disappointed.

The signorino was not in the house; he had gone up to the villa. But he
had sent a message that later in the evening he intended to pay his
respects to old friends. Madame Petrucci was beautifully dressed in soft
black silk, old lace, and a white Indian shawl. Miss Prunty had on her
starchiest collar and most formal tie. Goneril saw it was necessary that
she, likewise, should deck herself in her best. She was too young and
impressionable not to be influenced by the flutter of excitement and
interest which filled the whole of the little cottage. Goneril, too, was
excited and anxious, although Signor Graziano had seemed so old and
like a coffee-bean. She made no progress in the piece of embroidery she
was working as a present for the two old ladies; jumping up and down to
look out of the window. When, about eight o'clock, the door-bell rang,
Goneril blushed, Madame Petrucci gave a pretty little shriek, Miss
Prunty jumped up and rang for the coffee. A moment afterwards the
signorino entered. While he was greeting her hostesses, Goneril cast a
rapid glance at him. He was tall for an Italian; rather bent and rather
grey; fifty at least, therefore very old. He certainly was brown, but
his features were fine and good, and he had a distinguished and
benevolent air that somehow made her think of an abbe, a French abbe of
the last century. She could quite imagine him saying "Enfant de St.
Louis; montez au ciel!"

Thus far had she got in her meditations, when she felt herself addressed
in clear, half-mocking tones--

"And how, this evening, is Madamigella Ruth?"

So he had seen her this evening, binding his corn.

"I am quite well, padrone," she said, smiling shyly.

The two old ladies looked on amazed, for of course they were not in the
secret.

"Signor Graziano, Miss Goneril Hamelyn," said Miss Prunty, rather
severely.

Goneril felt that the time was come for silence and good manners. She
sat quite quiet over her embroidery, listening to the talk of Sontag,
of Clementi, of musicians and singers dead and gone. She noticed that