herself, big and soft and sumptuous in silks and laces, under a
much-befurbelowed, much-befringed, lavender-hued silk sunshade,
occupying the seat of honour. John hastened across the garden, hat in
hand, to welcome her.

"Jump in," she commanded, with a smile, and an imperious sweep of the
arm. "I have come to take you for a drive."

The footman (proud man) held open the door, and John jumped in. But just
as the footman (with an air) had closed the door behind him, and before
the coachman had touched up his horses, there came a rhythm of running
footsteps, and the voice of Annunziata called, insistently, "Prospero!
Prospero!" Then, all out of breath, her pale cheeks pink, her curls in
disarray, Annunziata arrived beside the carriage, and, no wise abashed
by that magnificent equipage, nor by the magnificent old lady throning
in it, (no wise abashed, but, from the roundness of her eyes, a good
deal surprised and vastly curious), she explained, gasping, "A
telegram," and held up to John a straw-coloured envelope.

"Thank you," said he, taking it, and waving a friendly hand. "But you
should not run so fast," he admonished her, with concern.

Whereupon the carriage drove off, Annunziata standing and watching,
always round-eyed, till it was out of sight.

"What an interesting-looking child!" said Lady Blanchemain.

"Yes," said John. "I should have liked to introduce her to you."

"Who is she?" asked the lady.