made of. Now,
when I saw it mellowed by centuries, combined with marble, and moulded
into arches and cornices, and a thousand marvellous ornamentations, I
made up my mind that I would never have a house of my own unless it
could have terra-cotta window and door-frames, and chimneys, and
everything else besides that could possibly be made of terra-cotta.

But the cloisters, great and small, were better than anything else;
better than the facade; better than the marble church, with all the
lovely little side chapels; better than anything I ever saw; and I
walked about alone, pleased with myself because, in spite of my
ignorance, I had enough sense of appreciation to be happy. Still, I
wasn't sorry when Sir Ralph left Mamma listening with Maida, to things
Mr. Barrymore was saying about moulded brick and terra-cotta
architecture in North Italy, to join me.

"Terry says there's something in the world more beautiful than this," he
remarked.

"I suppose he's thinking of Maida," said I.

"Not at all. Probably, if you could see into his mind you'd discover
that he's wishing you hadn't wandered away from his orations. The thing
which he considers more beautiful is the cloister of Monreale, at
Palermo, in Sicily. But, then, this isn't the part of Italy Terry loves
best. He won't begin to shine till he gets to Verona; and even Verona he
calls only a charming inn where the world's great travellers have left
mementoes of their passage, rather than a true Italian town stamped with
the divine genius of Italy. When he's at Venice, he'll be at home.
You'll like Terry in Venice."

"The question is, will he like _me_ in
Venice?" I asked, looking out of the corner of my eye at the tall
Chauffeulier in his leather-coat, showing a heavenly white marble
doorway to Maida, and Mamma.

"Of course he will. You mustn't be discouraged by his manner. If only he
thought you were poor!"

"Shall I intimate to him that Maida is very rich?"

"No, no. I wouldn't deceive him about that. Let well alone. All will
come right in time."

"Meanwhile, I suppose I must put up with you?"

"If you can. Unless I bore you. Would you rather I left you alone?"

"No-o. There's just enough of you to fill an aching void," said I,
pertly. But he didn't seem to mind at all, and was very kind in telling
about frescoes and things, although he calls himself ignorant. He has
forgotten the boast in his advertisement perhaps, or he's trying to live
up to it as well