member, auntie."

By this time they were driving under the terrace in front of the little
house.

"Goneril," said the elder lady, "I shall leave you outside; you can play
in the garden or the orchard."

"Very well."

Miss Hamelyn left the carriage and ascended the steep little flight of
steps that leads from the road to the cottage garden.

In the porch a singular figure was awaiting her.

"Good afternoon, Madame Petrucci," said Miss Hamelyn.

A slender old lady, over sixty, rather tall, in a brown silk skirt, and
a white burnouse that showed the shrunken slimness of her arms, came
eagerly forward. She was still rather pretty, with small refined
features, large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow
ringlets down her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago.

"Oh, _dear_ Miss Hamelyn," she cried, "how _glad_ I am to see you.
And have you brought your _charming_ young relation?"

She spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and
bountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an
impression of insincerity. Yet it was said with truth that Giulia
Petrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy.

"Goneril is outside" said Miss Hamelyn. "How is Miss Prunty?"

"Brigida? Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida. She is
as usual fatiguing herself with our accounts." The old lady led the way
into the darkened parlour. It was small and rather stiff. As one's eyes
became accustomed to the dim green light one noticed the incongruity of
the furniture; the horsehair chairs and sofa, and large accountant's
desk with ledgers; the large Pleyel grand piano, a bookcase, in which
all the books were rare copies or priceless MSS. of old-fashioned
operas; hanging against the wall an inlaid guitar and some faded laurel
crowns; moreover, a fine engraving of a composer, twenty years ago the
most popular man in Italy; lastly, an oil-colour portrait, by Winterman,
of a fascinating blonde, with very bare white shoulders, holding in her
hands a scroll, on which were inscribed some notes of music, under the
title Giulia Petrucci. In short, the private parlour of an elderly and
respectable Diva of the year '40.

"Brigida!" cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. "Brigida! our
charming English friend is arrived!"

"All right!" answered a strong hearty voice from upstairs. "I'm coming."

"You must excuse me, dear Miss Hamelyn," went on Madame Petrucci. "You
must excuse me fo