eucalyptus-trees, oleanders, magnolias, of orange-trees, where the
oranges hung, amid the dark foliage, like dull-burning lanterns. A
crescent of diamonds twinkled in the warm blackness of her hair. She
wore a collar of pearls round her throat, and a long rope of pearls
that descended to her waist, and was then looped up and caught at the
bosom by an opal clasp. A delicate perfume, like the perfume of
violets, came and went in the air near her. She held a great fluffy
fan of white feathers in one hand, and in the other carried loose her
long white gloves; and gems sparkled on her fingers. The waters under
the sea-wall beside her kept up a perpetual whispering, like a
commentary on the situation. The old man considered these things, and
his misgivings were entirely dissipated.

"Ha!" he scoffed, twisting his immense iron-grey moustaches with
complacency. "I can't guess what prank you may be up to, but you are
never starting for Venice in a ball-dress. You 're capable of a good
deal, my dear, but you 're not capable of that."

"Oh, I 'm capable of anything and everything," Susanna answered,
cheerfully ominous. "Besides," she plausibly admonished him, "you
might do me the justice of supposing that I have changes aboard the
_Fiorimondo_. My maid awaits me there with quite a dozen boxes.
So--you see. Oh, and by the bye," she interjected, "Serafino also is
coming with me. He'll act as courier--buy my tickets, register my
luggage; and then, when we reach our ultimate destination, resume his
white cap and apron. My ultimate destination, you must know," she
said, with a lightness which, I think, on the face of it was spurious,
"is a little village in England--a little village called Craford;
and"--she smiled convincingly--"I hear that the cuisine is not to be
depended upon in little English villages."

All the Commendatore's anxieties had revived. This time he frowned in
grim earnest.

"_Creforrrd_!" he ejaculated.

The word fell like an explosion; and there was the climax of horrified
astonishment in those reverberating r's.

"I think you are mad," he said. "Or, if you are not mad, you are the
slyest young miss in Christendom."

Susanna's eyes darkened, pathetic, wistful.

"Ah, don't be cross," she pleaded. "I 'm not mad, and I 'm not sly.
But I 'm free and independent. What's the good of being free and
independent," she largely argued, "if you can't do the things you want
to? I 'm going to Craford