Margaret, laughing, as I
recalled the look of soft pity on Miss Elaine's face all day; "she will
think it but the gayety of desperation." Then, more soberly, I added:
"Mr. Lloyd told you this, I suppose? You are with him a great deal, are
you not?"

"You see that I am, aunt. But it is only because she has not come yet."

"Who?"

"The brighter and younger woman who will take my place." But I did not
think she believed it.

* * * * *

On another day we went to Castellare, a little stone village much like
Gorbio, perched on its ridge, and rejoicing in an especial resemblance
to one of Caesar's fortified camps. The castle here was not so much a
castle as a chateau; its principal apartment was adorned with frescos
representing the history of Adam and Eve. We should not have seen these
frescos if it had not been for Miss Graves: I am afraid we should have
(there is no other word) shirked them. But Miss Graves had heard of the
presence of ancient works of art, and was bent upon finding them. In
vain Lloyd conducted her in and out of half a dozen old houses,
suggesting that each one was "probably" all that was left of the
"chateau." Miss Graves remained inflexibly unconvinced, and in the end
gained her point. We all saw Adam and Eve.

"Why did they want frescos away out here in this primitive little
village to which no road led, hardly even a donkey path?" I said.

"That is the very reason," replied Margaret. "They had no society,
nothing to do; so they looked at their frescos exhaustively."

"What do those eagles at the corners represent?" said Janet.

"They are the device of the Lascaris," replied the Professor.

"Do you mean to tell me that _this_ was one of their homes also?" she
exclaimed. "Let a chair be brought, and all of you leave me. I wish to
remain here alone, and imagine that I am one of them."

"Couldn't you imagine two?" said Inness. And he gained his point.

On our way home we found another block in the main street, and paused.
We were near what we called the umbrella place--an archway opening down
towards the old port; here against the stone wall an umbrella-maker had
established his open-air shop, and his scarlet and blue lined parasols
and white umbrellas, hung up at the entrance, made a picturesque spot of
color we had all admired. This afternoon we were late; it was nearly
twilight, and, in this narrow, high-walled street, almost night. As we
waited we heard chan