her. But she could not part from it. She put it in her breast, and when she
slept, it was still there.




CHAPTER III


'Eleanor--where are you off to?'

'Just to my house of Simmon,' said that lady, smiling. She was standing on
the eastern balcony, buttoning a dainty grey glove, while Manisty a few
paces from her was lounging in a deck-chair, with the English newspapers.

'What?--to mass? I protest. Look at the lake--look at the sky--look at that
patch of broom on the lake side. Come and walk there before _dejeuner_--and
make a round home by Aricia.'

Mrs. Burgoyne shook her head.

'No--I like my little idolatries,' she said, with decision. It was Sunday
morning. The bells in Marinata were ringing merrily. Women and girls with
black lace scarves upon their heads, handsome young men in short coats and
soft peaked hats, were passing along the road between the villa and the
lake, on their way to mass. It was a warm April day. The clouds of yellow
banksia, hanging over the statued wall that girdled the fountain-basin,
were breaking into bloom; and the nightingales were singing with a
prodigality that was hardly worthy of their rank and dignity. Nature in
truth is too lavish of nightingales on the Alban Hills in spring! She