e at all."

There was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five
minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished
by the mackintosh square.

She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the
carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony
young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesy
of a host and the assurance of a relative.

"Dove?" said Lucy, after much anxious thought.

His face lit up. Of course he knew where, Not so far either. His arm
swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know
where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them
towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.

More seemed necessary. What was the Italian for "clergyman"?

"Dove buoni uomini?" said she at last.

Good? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his
cigar.

"Uno--piu--piccolo," was her next remark, implying "Has the cigar been
given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?"

She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make
it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his
hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a
minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way. It
would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a
chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well
as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a
gift from God.

He only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked
him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world
was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence
of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other
things, existed in great profusion there; "would she like to see them?"

"Ma buoni uomini."

He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded
briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They
were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round
them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless
pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant
boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a
twig, was unimportant to her.

"What is that?"

There was a voice in