the gardened court, where the bees murmured among the crocuses and
hyacinths under the noonday sun. Miss Vervain stood looking out of the
window upon the lagoon, while her mother drifted about the room,
peering at the objects on the wall through her eyeglasses. She was
praising a Chinese painting of fish on rice-paper, when a young monk
entered with a cordial greeting in English for Mr. Ferris. She turned
and saw them shaking hands, but at the same moment her eyeglasses
abandoned her nose with a vigorous leap; she gave an amiable laugh, and
groping for them over her dress, bowed at random as Mr. Ferris
presented Padre Girolamo.

"I've been admiring this painting so much, Padre Girolamo," she said,
with instant good-will, and taking the monk into the easy familiarity
of her friendship by the tone with which she spoke his name. "Some of
the brothers did it, I suppose."

"Oh no," said the monk, "it's a Chinese painting. We hung it up there
because it was given to us, and was curious."

"Well, now, do you know," returned Mrs. Vervain, "I _thought_ it
was Chinese! Their things _are_, so odd. But really, in an
Armenian convent it's very misleading. I don't think you ought to leave
it there; it certainly does throw people off the track," she added,
subduing the expression to something very lady-like, by the winning
appeal with which she used it.

"Oh, but if they put up Armenian paintings in Chinese convents?" said
Mr. Ferris.

"You're joking!" cried Mrs. Vervain, looking at him with a graciously