he
entertainment of several gentlemen friends.

A little bored by the evident self-advertisement of these rival belles,
Irene moved away with Vincent to a quieter corner of the deck. She was
to see more of them soon, however. They both disembarked when the
steamer reached Fossato, their luggage was piled upon the carriages, and
she watched them drive away up the steep, narrow road that led into the
town.

The Beverleys had decided to have an early lunch at the hotel by the
quay before taking Irene to school. It was their last meal together, so
she was allowed to choose the menu, and regaled the family on hitherto
unknown Italian dishes, winding up with coffee, ices, and chocolates.

"I'm glad you don't cater for us every day, Renie, or I should soon be
ruined," said Father, as the waiter brought him the bill. "Now are you
ready? If we don't hurry and get you up quickly to school we shall miss
the boat back to Naples. Another package of chocolates! You
unconscionable child! Well, put it in your pocket and console yourself
with it at bedtime. The concierge says our _vetturino_ is waiting--not
that any Italian coachman minds doing that! All the same, time is short
and we had better make a start."

In that first drive through the narrow, steep, stone-paved streets of
Fossato Irene was too excited to take in any details except a general
impression of rich, foreign color and high, white walls. Afterwards,
when she came to know the town better, she realized its subtler points.
She felt as one in a dream when the carriage turned through a great
gate, and passed along an avenue of orange trees to a large, square
house, color-washed pink, and approached by a flight of marble steps.
What happened next she could never clearly recall. She remembered the
agony of a short wait in the drawing-room until Miss Rodgers arrived,
how the whole party, including Vincent, were shown some of the principal
rooms of the house, an agitated moment of good-by kisses, then the sound
of departing wheels, and a sudden overwhelming sensation that, for the
first time in her life, she was alone in a foreign land. Foreign and yet
familiar, for the Villa Camellia was a skillful combination of the best
out of several countries. Its setting was Italian, its decorations were
French, and its fifty-six pupils were all unmistakably and undoubtedly
Anglo-Saxon. Irene was assured on this point immediately, for Miss
Rodgers, calling to a girl who was passing dow