LITMIR.BIZ

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good this year, you know, and you like them."

      "Don't be silly!" Marcello immediately reined his horse back to a walk, and looked very dignified.

      "It is impossible to please you," observed Aurora, slackening her pace at once.

      "It is impossible, if you abuse Folco."

      "I am sure I did not mean to abuse him," Aurora answered meekly. "I never abuse anybody."

      "Women never do, I suppose," retorted Marcello, with a little snort of dissatisfaction.

      They were little more than children yet, and for pretty nearly five minutes neither spoke a word, as their horses walked side by side.

      "The keeper of the tower has more chickens this year," observed Aurora. "I can see them running about."

      This remark was evidently intended as an overture of reconciliation. It acted like magic upon Marcello, who hated quarrelling, and was moreover much more in love with the girl than he knew. Instinctively he put out his left hand to take her right. They always made peace by taking hands.

      But Aurora's did not move, and she did not even turn her head towards him.

      "Take care!" she said quickly, in a low tone. "They are watching us."

      Marcello looked round and saw that the others were nearer than he had supposed, and he blushed foolishly.

      "Well, what harm would there be if you gave me your hand?" he asked. "I only meant—"

      "Yes, I understand," Aurora answered, in the same tone as before. "And I am glad you like me, Marcello—if you really do."

      "If I do!" His tone was full of youthful and righteous indignation.

      "I did not mean to doubt it," she said quickly. "But it is getting to be different now, you know. We are older, and somehow everything means more, even the little things."

      "Oh!" ejaculated Marcello. "I begin to see. I suppose," he added, with what seemed to him reckless brutality, "that if I kissed you now you would be furious."

      He glanced uneasily at Aurora's face to note the effect of this terrible speech. The result was not exactly what he had expected. A faint colour rose in her cheeks, and then she laughed.

      "When you do," she said, "I would rather it should not be before people."

      "I shall try to remember that," answered Marcello, considerably emboldened.

      "Yes, do! It would be so humiliating if I boxed your ears in the presence of witnesses."

      "You would not dare," laughed Marcello.

      From a distance, as Aurora had guessed, Folco was watching them while he quietly talked to the Contessa; and as he watched, he understood what a change had taken place since last year, when he had seen Marcello and Aurora riding over the same stretch of sand on the same little horses. He ventured a reflection, to see what his companion would answer.

      "I daresay many people would say that those two young people were made for each other."

      Maddalena looked at him inquiringly and then glanced at her daughter.

      "And what do you say?" she asked, with some curiosity.

      "I say 'no.' And you?"

      "I agree with you. Aurora is like me—like what I was. Marcello would bore her to death in six months, and Aurora would drive him quite mad."

      Corbario smiled.

      "I had hoped," he said, "that women with marriageable-daughters would think Marcello a model husband. But of course I am prejudiced. I have had a good deal to do with his bringing up during the last four years."

      "No one can say that you have not done your duty by him," Maddalena answered. "I wish I could feel that I had done as well by Aurora—indeed I do!"

      "You have, but you had quite a different nature to deal with."

      "I should think so! It is my own."

      Corbario heard the little sigh as she turned her head away, and being a wise man he said nothing in answer. He was not a Roman, if indeed he were really an Italian at all, but he had vaguely heard the Contessa's story. She had been married very young to a parliamentary high-light, who had made much noise in his day, had spent more than half of her fortune after getting rid of his own, and had been forgotten on the morrow of his premature death. It was said that she had loved another man with all her heart, but Corbario had never known who it was.

      The sun was almost setting when they turned homeward, and it was dark when they reached the cottage. They found an unexpected arrival installed beside the Signora in the doorway of the sitting-room.

      "Professor Kalmon is here," said the Signora's voice out of the gloom. "I have asked him to stay till to-morrow."

      The Professor rose up in the shadow and came forward, just as a servant brought a lamp. He was celebrated as a traveller, and occupied the chair of comparative physiology in the University of Milan. He belonged to the modern type of scientific man, which has replaced the one of fifty years ago, who lived in a dressing-gown and slippers, smoked a long pipe, and was always losing his belongings through absence of mind. The modern professor is very like other human beings in dress and appearance, and has even been known to pride himself on the fit of his coat, just like the common people.

      There were mutual greetings, for the Professor knew all the party, and everybody liked him. He was a big man, with a well-kept brown beard, a very clear complexion, and bright brown eyes that looked as if they would never need spectacles.

      "And where have you been since we last saw you?" asked Corbario.

      "Are your pockets full of snakes this time?" asked Aurora.

      The Professor looked at her and smiled, realising that she was no longer the child she had been when he had seen her last, and that she was very good to look at. His brown eyes beamed upon her benevolently.

      "Ah, my dear young lady, I see it is all over," he said. "You will never pull my beard again and turn my pockets inside out for specimens when I come back from my walks on the beach."

      "Do you think I am afraid of you or your specimens?" laughed Aurora.

      "I have got a terrible thing in my waistcoat pocket," the Professor answered. "Something you might very well be afraid of."

      "What is it? It must be very small to be in your waistcoat pocket."

      "It is a new form of death."

      He beamed on everybody with increasing benevolence; but somehow nobody smiled, and the Signora Corbario shivered and drew her light cloak more closely round her, as the first gust of the night breeze came up from the rustling reeds that grew in the pool below.

      "It is time to get ready for supper," said Folco. "I hope you are not hungry, Kalmon, for you will not get anything very elaborate to eat!"

      "Bread and cheese will do, my dear fellow."

      When Italians go to the country they take nothing of the city with them. They like the contrast to be complete; they love the total absence of restraint; they think it delightful to dine in their shooting-coats and to eat coarse fare. If they had to dress for dinner it would not be the country at all, nor if dinner had to begin with soup and end with sweets just as it does in town. They eat extraordinary messes that would make a Frenchman turn pale and a German look grave. They make portentous pasties, rich with everything under the sun; they eat fat boiled beef, and raw fennel, and green almonds, and vast quantities of cream cheese, and they drink sour wine like water; and it all agrees with them perfectly, so that they come back to the city refreshed and rested after a gastronomic treatment which would bring any other European to death's door.

      The table was set out on the verandah that evening, as usual in spring, and little by little the Professor absorbed the conversation, for they all asked him questions, few of which could be answered shortly. He was one of those profoundly

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