e particularly irritating to Miss Prunty, who was,
after all, only four years older than the signorino. That lady had,
indeed, become more than usually sharp and foreboding. She received the
signorino's gay effusions in ominous silence, and would frown darkly
while Madame Petrucci petted her "little bird," as she called Goneril.
Once indeed Miss Prunty was heard to remark it was tempting Providence
to have dealings with a creature whose very name was a synonym for
ingratitude. But the elder lady only smiled, and declared that her
Gonerilla was charming, delicious, a real sunshine in the house.

"Now I call on you to support me, signorino," she cried one evening,
when the three elders sat together in the room while Goneril watered the
roses on the terrace. "Is not my Goneril a charming little bebe?"

Signor Graziano withdrew his eyes from the window.

"Most charming, certainly; but scarcely such a child. She is seventeen,
you know, my dear signora."

"Seventeen! Santo Dio! And what is one at seventeen but an innocent,
playful, charming little kitten?"

"You are always right, madame," agreed the signorino; but he looked as
if he thought she were very wrong.

"Of course I am right," laughed the little lady. "Come here my
Gonerilla, and hold my skein for me. Signor Graziano is going to charm
us with one of his delightful airs."

"I hoped she would sing," faltered the signorino.

"Who? Gonerilla? Nonsense, my friend. She winds silk much better than
she sings."

Goneril laughed. She was not at all offended. But Signor Graziano made
several mistakes in his playing. At last he left the piano. "I cannot
play tonight," he cried. "I am not in the humour. Goneril, will you come
and walk with me on the terrace?"

Before the girl could reply Miss Prunty had darted an angry glance at
Signor Graziano.

"Good Lord, what fools men are!" she ejaculated. "And do you think, now,
I'm going to let that girl, who's but just getting rid of her malaria,
go star-gazing with any old idiot while all the mists are curling out of
the valleys?"

"Brigida, my love, you forget yourself," said Madame Petrucci.

"Bah!" cried the signorino. He was evidently out of temper.

The little lady hastened to smooth the troubled waters. "Talking of
malaria," she began in her serenest manner, "I always remember what my
dearest Madame Lilli told me. It was at one of Prince Teano's concerts.
You remember, signorino?"

"Che! How should I remember," h