It was a long letter in her ladyship's own handsome, high-bred,
old-fashioned handwriting; and it was addressed to Messrs. Farrow,
Bernscot, and Tisdale, Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. She
read it twice through, and at last (with a smile that seemed occult)
restored it to its envelope. "Stop at the Post Office," she said to her
coachman, as they entered Roccadoro; and to her footman, giving him the
letter, "Have that registered, please."

Annunziata lay in wait for John in the garden. She ran up, and seized
him by the arm. Then, skipping beside him, as he walked on, "Who was
she? Where did she come from? Where did she take you? Whom was the
telegram from?" she demanded in a breath, nestling her curls against his
coat-sleeve.

"_Piano, piano_," remonstrated John. "One question at a time. Now, begin
again."

"Whom was the telegram from?" she obeyed, beginning at the end.

"Ah," said he, "the telegram was from _my_ friend Prospero. He's coming
here to-morrow. We must ask your uncle whether he can give him a bed."

"And the old lady?" pursued Annunziata. "Who was she?"

"The old lady was my fairy godmother," said John, building better than
he knew.