"Oh, certainly, certainly; I am only sorry that I mentioned it," said Mr. Heron, more formally than usual. He was a little vexed at his own precipitation, and also by the way in which his request had been received. For a few moments there was a somewhat awkward silence, during which the young man stood with his eyes cast down, apparently absorbed in thought. "A striking face," thought Mr. Heron to himself, being greatly attracted by the appearance of his new friend; "all the more picturesque on account of that curious grey hair. I wonder what his history has been." Then he spoke aloud and in a kindlier tone. "I will accept your offer of help," he said, "and ask you to walk back with me to the town, if you are going that way. I came by a short cut, which I am quite sure that I shall never remember."
The young man awoke from his apparently sad meditations; his fine, dark eyes were lightened by a grateful smile as he looked at Mr. Heron. It seemed as though he were glad that something had been suggested that he could do. But the smile was succeeded by a still more settled look of gloom.
"I must introduce myself," he said. "I have no card with me—perhaps this will do as well." He held out the book that he had been reading; it was a copy of Horace's Odes, bound in vellum. On the fly-leaf, a name had been scrawled in pencil—John Stretton. Mr. Heron glanced at it through his eye-glass, nodded pleasantly, and regarded his new friend with increased respect.
"You're a scholar, I see," he said, good-humouredly, as they strolled leisurely towards the little town in which he had told John Stretton that he was staying; "or else you would not bring Horace out with you into the fields on a sunshiny day like this. I have forgotten almost all my classical lore. To tell the truth, Mr. Stretton, I never found it very much good to me; but I suppose all boys have got to have a certain amount of it drilled into them——?" He stopped short in an interrogative manner.
"I suppose so," said Stretton, without a smile. His eyes were bent on the ground; there was a joyless contraction of his delicate, dark brows. It was with an evident effort that he suddenly looked up and spoke. "I have an interest in such subjects. I am trying to find pupils myself—or, at least, I hope to find some when I return to England in a week or two. I think," he added with a half-laugh, "that I am a pretty good classic—good enough, at least, to teach small boys!"
"I dare say, I dare say," said Mr. Heron, hastily. He looked as if he would like to put another question or two, then turned away, muttered something inaudible, and started off upon a totally different subject, about which he laid down the law with unaccustomed volubility and decision. Stretton listened, assented now and then, but took care to say little in reply. A sudden turn in the road brought them close to a fine, old building, grey with age, but stately still, at the sight of which Mr. Heron became silent and slackened his pace.
"A magnificent old place," said Stretton, looking up at it as his companion paused before the gateway.
"Picturesque, but not very waterproof," said Mr. Heron, with a dismal air of conviction. "It is what they call the Villa Venturi. There are some charming bits of colour about it, but I am not sure that it is the best possible residence."
"You are residing here?"
"For the present—yes. You must come in and see the banqueting-hall and the terrace; you must, indeed. My wife will be delighted to thank you herself—for the rescue of the umbrella!" and Mr. Heron laughed quietly below his breath. "Yes, yes"—as Stretton showed symptoms of refusing—"I can take no denial. After your long, hot walk with me, you must come in and rest, if it is but for half-an-hour. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to have a chat with some one like yourself, who can properly appreciate the influence of the Renaissance upon Italian art."