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"I am sure, if he told the truth, he would not say that of you," said Christina, looking with secret admiration at the figure before her. It was a rare kind of beauty, not of the stereotyped or formal sort; like one of the dainty old vases of alabaster, elegant in form and delicate and exquisite in chiselling and design, with a pure inner light showing through. That was not the comparison in Christina's mind, and indeed she made none; but women's eyes are sometimes sharp to see feminine beauty; and she confessed that Dolly's was uncommon, not merely in degree but in kind. There was nothing conventional about it; there never had been; her curling hair took a wayward way of its own; her brown eyes had a look of thoughtfulness mingled with childlike innocence; they always had it more or less; now the wisdom was more sweet and the innocence more spiritual. Her figure and her manner were all in harmony, wearing unconscious grace and a very simple, free dignity.

"We cannot go to Paestum at this season of the year, they say,"

Christina began again, at a distance from her thoughts; "but one _can_ go to the Punta di Campanella and Monte San Costanzo; and as soon as Sandie comes, we will. We will wait a day for him first."

Dolly was quite willing to wait for him; for, to tell the truth, one of her pleasures in the thought of this visit had been the possibility of seeing Mr. Shubrick again. She did not say so, however; and the two girls presently went back to the hall. This was a luxurious apartment, occupying the centre of the house; octagonal, and open to the outer world both at front and back. Warm and yet fresh air was playing through it; the odours of flowers filled it; the most commodious of light chairs and settees furnished it; and scattered about the wide, delicious space were the various members of the party. Mrs. Thayer and Mrs. Copley had been sitting together; just now, as the girls entered, Mrs. Thayer called St. Leger to her.

"I am delighted to see you here, Mr. St. Leger," she said graciously.

"You know your father was a very old friend of mine."

"That gives me a sort of claim to your present kindness," said St.

Leger.

"You might put in a claim to kindness anywhere," returned the lady.

"Don't you get it, now, if you tell the truth?"

"I have no reason to complain--in general," said the young man, smiling.

"You are a little like your father. He was another. We were great cronies when I was a girl. In fact, he was an old beau of mine. We used to see a vast deal of each other;--flirting, I suppose you would call it; but how are young people to get along without flirting? I liked him very much, for I always had a fancy for handsome men; and if you ask him, he will tell you that I was handsome too at that time. Oh, I was!

you may look at me and be incredulous; but I was a belle in those days; and I had a great many handsome men around me, and some not handsome.

....Was I English? No. You don't understand how I could have seen so much of your father. Well, never doubt a story till you have heard the whole of it. I was an American girl; but my father and mother were both dead, and I was sent to England, to be brought up by an aunt, who was the nearest relation I had in the world. She had married an Englishman and settled in England."

"Then we may claim you," said Lawrence. "To all intents and purposes you are English."

"Might have been," returned Mrs. Thayer. "The flirtation ran very high, I can tell you, between your father and me. He was a poor man then. I understand he has nobly recovered from that fault. Is it true? People say he is made of gold."

"There is no lack of the material article," Lawrence admitted.

"No. Well, the other sort we know he had, or this would never be true of him now. I did not look so far ahead then. There is no telling what would have happened, but for a little thing. Just see how things go. I might have married in England, and all my life would have been different; and then came along Mr. Thayer. And the way I came to know him was this. A cousin of mine in America was going to be married, and her friend was a friend of Mr. Thayer. Mr. Thayer was coming over to England, and my cousin charged him with a little piece of wedding cake in white paper to bring to me. Just that little white packet! and Mr.

Thayer brought it, and we saw one another, and the end was, I have lived my life on the other side instead of on this side."

"It's our loss, I am sure," said St. Leger civilly.

"You are too polite to say it is mine, but I know you think so. Perhaps it is. At any rate, I was determined, and am determined, that my daughter shall see and choose for herself which hemisphere she will live in. What are you doing in Italy?"

"What everybody does in Italy, looking at the old and enjoying the new."

"Ah, that's what it is!" said Mrs. Thayer approvingly. "That is what one enjoys. But my husband is one of the other sort. We divide Italy between us. He looks at the marbles, and I eat the pomegranates. Do you like pomegranates?--No? I delight in them, and in everything else fresh and new and sweet and acid. But what I want to know, Mr. St. Leger, is--how come these old ruins to be so worth looking at? Hasn't the human race made progress? Can't we raise as good buildings now-a-days, and as good to see, as those old heathen did?"

"I suppose we can, when we copy their work exactly."

"But how is that? Christians ought to do better work than heathens. I do not understand it."

"No," said St. Leger, "I do not understand it."

"Old poetry--that's what they study so much at Oxford and Cambridge, and everywhere else;--and old pictures, and old statues. I think the world ought to grow wiser as it grows older. I believe it is prejudice.

There's my husband crazy to go to Paesturn,--I'm glad he can't; the marshes or something are so unhealthy; but I'm going to arrange for you an expedition to the Punta--Punta di something--the toe of the boot, you know; it's delightful; you go on donkeys, and you have the most charming views, and what I know you like better than anything,--the most charming opportunities for flirtation."

"It will have to be Miss Thayer and I then," said Lawrence. "Miss Copley does not know how."

"Nonsense! Don't tell me. Every girl does. She has her own way, I suppose. Makes it more piquant--and _piquing_."

Lawrence looked over towards the innocent face, so innocent of anything false, he knew, or even of anything ambiguous; a face of pure womanly nature, childlike in its naturalness, although womanly in its gravity.

Perhaps he drew a swift comparison between a man's chances with a face of that sort, and the counter advantages of Christina's more conventional beauty. Mr. Thayer had sat down beside Dolly and was drawing her into talk.

"You are fond of art, Miss Copley. I remember we met you first in the room of the dying gladiator, in the Capitoline Museum. But everybody has to go to see the dying gladiator and the rest."

"I suppose so," said Dolly.

"I remember, though, I thought you were enjoying it."

"Oh, I was."

"I can always find out whether people really enjoy things. How many times did you go to see the gladiator? Let me see,--you were in Rome three months?"

"Nearer four."

"Four! Well, and how many times did you see the gladiator?"

"I don't quite know. Half a dozen times, I think. I went until I had got it by heart; and now I can look at it whenever I like."

"Humph!" said Mr. Thayer. "The only thing Christina wanted to see a second time was the mosaics; and those she did not get by heart exactly, but brought them away, a good many of them, bodily. And have you developed any taste for architecture during your travels?"

"I take great pleasure in some architecture," said Dolly.

"May I ask what instances? I am curious to see how our tastes harmonise."

"Ah, but I know nothing about it," said Dolly. "I am entirely--or almost entirely--ignorant; and you know and understand."

"'Almost entirely?'" said Mr. Thayer. "You have studied the subject?"

"A little," said Dolly, smiling and blushing.

"Do favour me. I am desirous to know what you have seen that particularly pleased you."

"The cathedral at Limburg."

"Limburg. Oh--ah! yes, it was _there_ we first met you. I was thinking it was in the museum of the Capitol. Limburg. You liked that?"

"Very much!"

"Romanesque--or rather Transition."

"I do not know what Romanesque is, or Transition either."

"Did you notice the round arches and the pointed arches?"

"I do not remember. Yes, I do remember the round arches; but I was thinking rather of the effect of the whole."

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