enough to travel, as an
especial favour to me and to their old friend, Mrs. Gorthrup."

"I'll remember, auntie."

By this time they were driving under the terrace in front of the little
house.

"Goneril," said the elder lady, "I shall leave you outside; you can play
in the garden or the orchard."

"Very well."

Miss Hamelyn left the carriage and ascended the steep little flight of
steps that leads from the road to the cottage garden.

In the porch a singular figure was awaiting her.

"Good-afternoon, Madame Petrucci," said Miss Hamelyn.

A slender old lady, over sixty, rather tall, in a brown silk skirt, and
a white burnoose that showed the shrunken slimness of her arms, came
eagerly forward. She was rather pretty, with small refined features,
large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow ringlets down
her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago.

"Oh, _dear_ Miss Hamelyn," she cried, "how _glad_ I am to see you! And
have you brought your _charming_ young relation?"

She spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and
bountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an
impression of insincerity. Yet it was said with truth that Giulia
Petrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy.

"Goneril is outside," said Miss Hamelyn. "How is Miss Prunty?"

"Brigida? Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida. She
is, as usual, fatiguing herself with our accounts." The old lady led the
way into the darkened parlour. It was small and rather stiff. As
one's eyes became accustomed to the dim green light one noticed the
incongruity of the furniture: the horsehair chairs and sofa, and
large accountant's desk with ledgers; the large Pleyel grand piano; a
bookcase, in which all the books were rare copies or priceless MSS. of
old-fashioned operas; hanging against the wall an inlaid guitar and some
faded laurel crowns; moreover, a fine engraving of a composer, twenty
years ago the most popular man in Italy; lastly, an oil-colour portrait,
by Winterman, of a fascinating blonde, with very bare white shoulders,
holding in her hands a scroll, on which were inscribed some notes of
music, under the title Giulia Petrucci. In short, the private parlour of
an elderly and respectable diva of the year '40.

"Brigida!" cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. "Brigida! our
charming English friend is arrived!"

"All right!" answered a strong, hearty voice from upstairs. "I'm
co