question for poor Miss Roberta--so even the sight of a man and a
stranger was an unusual thing! She had not attempted conversation with
anyone but Mr. Miller, the curate, for over eleven years. The isolation
in which the inhabitants of La Sarthe Chase lived could not be more
complete.

The Italian parlor had its own slightly pathetic _cachet_. The walls and
ceiling had been painted by rather a bad artist from Florence at the
beginning of the nineteenth century, but the furniture was good of its
kind--a strange dark orange lacquer and gilt--and here most of the
treasures which had not yet been disposed of for daily bread, were
hoarded in cabinets and quaint glass-topped show tables. There were a
number of other priceless things about the house, the value of which the
Long Man's artistic education was as yet too unfinished to appreciate.
And the greatest treasure of all, as we have seen, was probably only
understood by Halcyone--but more of that in its place.

At present it concerns us to know that Miss La Sarthe and her sister had
reached the Italian parlor, and were seated in their respective
chairs--Miss Roberta with a piece of delicate embroidery in her hands,
the stitches of which her eyes--without spectacles, to receive
company--were too weak adequately to perceive.

Miss La Sarthe did not condescend to any such subterfuges. She sat quite
still doing nothing, looking very much as she had looked for the last
forty years. Her harp stood on one side of the fireplace, and Miss
Roberta's guitar hung by a faded blue ribbon from a nail at the other.

Presently old William announced: