and bring your last
letters from Ovid with you."

Mrs. Gallilee decided on considering this characteristic proposal later
in the day. Her first and foremost interest took her upstairs to her
niece's room.

Carmina had left her bed. Robed in her white dressing-gown, she lay on
the sofa in the sitting-room. When her aunt came in, she started and
shuddered Those signs of nervous aversion escaped the notice of Mrs.
Gallilee. Her attention had been at once attracted by a travelling bag,
opened as if in preparation for packing. The telegram lay on Carmina's
lap. The significant connection between those two objects asserted
itself plainly. But it was exactly the opposite of the connection
suspected by Mrs. Gallilee. The telegram had prevented Carmina from
leaving the house.

Mrs. Gallilee paved the way for the necessary investigation, by making
a few common-place inquiries. How had Carmina passed the night? Had the
maid taken care of her at breakfast-time? Was there anything that her
aunt could do for her? Carmina replied with a reluctance which she was
unable to conceal. Mrs. Gallilee passed over the cold reception accorded
to her without remark, and pointed with a bland smile to the telegram.

"No bad news, I hope?"

Carmina handed the telegram silently to her aunt. The change of
circumstances which the arrival of the message had produced, made
concealment superfluous. Mrs. Gallilee opened the telegram, keeping her
suspicions in reserve. It had been sent from Rome by the old foreign
woman, named "Teresa," and it contained these words:

"My husband died this morning. Expect me in London from day to day."

"Why is this person coming to London?" Mrs. Gallilee inquired.

Stung by the insolent composure of that question, Carmina answered
sharply, "Her name is on the telegram; you ought to know!"

"Indeed?" said Mrs. Gallilee. "Perhaps, she likes London?"

"She hates London! You have had her in the house; you have seen us
together. Now she has lost her husband, do you think she can live apart
from the one person in the world whom she loves best?"

"My dear, these matters of mere sentiment escape my notice," Mrs.
Gallilee rejoined. "It's an expensive journey from Italy to England.
What was her husband?"

"Her husband was foreman in a manufactory till his health failed him."

"And then," Mrs. Gallilee concluded, "the money failed him, of course.
What did he manufacture?"

"Artists' colours."

"Oh! an artists' col