"Well, I suppose, he was ashamed to show his face." But to this remark there was no reply.
Late one afternoon, Sir Dudley and his pupil,—having finished a sketch of the Baptistery, at Lenno, crossed over in the boat to the Villa Arconati,—which stands on its promontory half surrounded by water, and embowered in shade. Here the pair sat on the edge of a low wall, overlooking the lake, and carried on a lively discussion,—of which Mrs. Ffinch was the subject. Nancy did gallant battle for her friend, and patroness, and spoke with enthusiasm of her generosity and kindness of heart.
"Of course I am not denying old Julia a few good qualities; I've known her since I was a kid,"—and Sir Dudley unkindly added—"she's four or five years older than I am.—I remember her in the nursery, a big, overbearing girl, very stingy with jam. In those days the Hillsides were terribly hard up, and had a large family. Ju Lamerton was a sensible young woman, with no romantic nonsense about her, and she made room for her sisters, by marrying the biggest bore in the whole of India."
"Well, at any rate, they seem quite happy."
"Seem," repeated Sir Dudley; "that's her cleverness; she manages him. She manages everyone! She married off Emma and Mabel, and last time she came home, got a lout of a brother, into a capital sinecure." Then turning to look at Nancy, he added—"I wonder she didn't try her hand on you,—but I suppose you were too young?"
Nancy felt herself colouring up to the roots of her hair, and carried off the suggestion with a rather embarrassed laugh.
"I expect you had all the young planters on their knees, young as you were? Come now, own up, strictly between ourselves! How many scalps did you bring home?"
"Not one," she answered, with decision, "we were just good friends, like you and I,—nothing more."
"I am delighted we are good friends," murmured Villars; and after this sentence, there fell a strange and dreamy silence. The surrounding scene was exquisite, the beauty of Italy's lake land, tinged with a kind of roseate romance. Above them to the left, towered hills, clothed with olive and chestnut woods; at their feet gently lapped the jade-green water of the lake. The glow of a wonderful sunset touched the quiet landscape, and the only sound that recalled one to a workaday world, was the chime of the Angelus, stealing across from San Giovanni.
The stillness and solitude, had a compelling effect upon Villars; turning to Nancy, he said abruptly, "I must speak! Here is the hour, and the place! I want to tell you, that I have not had such a happy time, as this last five weeks—for many a long, long year. Nancy, may I call you Nancy?—everyone does, and Miss Travers sounds so formal! I may, may I not?"—as Nancy made no reply, but nervously twisted a rose between her fingers. He moved an inch or two nearer, and in a low, seductive voice continued: "There is no one to object,—is there?"