some English.

Life ran smoothly enough at the Villa Ariadne. La Signorina, at the very
last moment, surrendered to the entreaties of Kitty. She agreed not to
pass herself off as the princess. So they occupied the villa pleasurably
and in safety. The police, as prescribed by law, made two visits and had
gone away satisfied that, however odd they might be, the temporary
tenants were proper persons. Among themselves each played the role
originally assigned. It was innocent fun now, and La Signorina seemed to
enjoy the farce as much as any one. It was a great temptation not to
prowl round the forbidden rooms, not to steal a look into the marvelous
chests and sideboards, bulging as they knew with priceless glass and
silver and linen and laces. But La Signorina each day inspected the
seals and uttered solemn warnings.

There was only one in this strange medley of persons who was not
contented with his lot, who cared not if the letter from home never came
at all, and this person was Worth. To set down the trouble briefly, he
was desperately in love with La Signorina; and the knowledge of how
hopeless this passion was, together with the frequent efforts he had put
forth to repress the ardent declaration, were making him taciturn and
solitary. La Signorina never went down to Florence, not even to Fiesole;
so Worth never joined his companions when they took, pleasant excursions
into the city.

As one fences in the dark, instinctively, so she kept him a foil's
length away. Yet she would have been glad had he spoken; she could have
silenced him effectually then. It was rather nerve-racking to wait for
this unwelcome declaration day by day. They had now lived in the Villa
Ariadne for two weeks, a careless, thoughtless, happy-go-lucky family.
The gossip might have looked askance at them; but La Signorina would not
have cared and the others would not have thought.

Every afternoon at two o'clock O'Mally and the ancient gardener would
get together and give each other lessons, the one in English and the
other in Italian. When this was done, a small flask of Chianti was
forthcoming, and the old man enjoyed himself as he hadn't done since his
youth: a pipe of good tobacco and two glasses of Chianti. It was enough
for any reasonable man. He never inquired where the wine came from;
sufficient it was to him that it came at all. And O'Mally saw no reason
for discovering its source; in fact, he admired Pietro's reticence. For,
like Planc