He shut down the piano, and went back to his own room; then he took up the novel again, muttering, "Novels must certainly be gone to the bad when they can't amuse a man for half-an-hour! I remember the time when I could sit for hours over them." Mr. Barkley did not seem to remember that he, perhaps, was changed rather than the novels.
There came a knock at the door. He lazily drawled out, "Entrate." In came his sister with her cloak on, and, seeing him lying in an armchair in his dressing-gown, with a novel in his hand, she exclaimed—
"What are you about, Edmund? Are you not coming?"
"Where, may I ask?"
"You cannot have forgotten that the Adair and Blake party have got permission to see San Donato—Demidoff's Villa—and have asked us to go with them? We are to call for one of the girls at eleven. You know, the laying out of the grounds is said to be very beautiful, and the house itself gorgeous. There are collections of paintings, statues, and I know not what, to say nothing of the charms of living statues, Master Edmund—eh?"
Here was a test for his newly-formed resolution of avoiding Marie. What a pleasant vista his sister's words had called up, of wandering in the grounds of San Donato with Marie—getting purposely separated from the others, and only finding them after a needlessly long search; but it was just what he ought to keep clear of; and he felt irritated with Mrs. Penton for thus putting the temptation before him. However, he would be strong—he would sternly resist it—and in accordance with this determination he answered gruffly—
"I can't go and expose myself to such a sun as this. I have a headache."
Mrs. Penton turned round from the survey which she had been making of herself in the glass, and looked at him laughingly as she said—
"What's up now, Edmund? Have the little African's charms palled already?"
"Damn it!" he muttered, with uncontrollable irritation.