It was a land of fairies, a land of beauty, in which every breath of wind that blew carried with it the memory of music and song, of laughter and joyfulness. In a word, it was Florence in the height of her loveliness, crowned as a bride for her bridegroom the summer, and rejoicing in her splendor.
The Villa Rimini, with its numerous windows twinkling with the recently-lit candles, was one of the most beautiful of the many palatial residences in the “City of Flowers.” It had been a home of one of the ancient princes, and when Lady Despard had first seen, fancied and bought it, was nearly in ruins; but, with the immense wealth at her command, she had restored it, if not to quite its ancient splendor, at least to a semblance which came very near the original reality.
Marble corridors, vast saloons, with rare hangings and costly frescoes, statues which the Louvre would gladly have bidden for, antique fountains and priceless mosaics were all here as in the days when the princely owners were, indeed, a name and a power in the land.
And here she and Doris had been living a dreamy existence, a period of lotus-eating, for nearly a month.
There was the usual colony of English in Florence, of which the Villa Rimini was, by right of its splendor and the rank and wealth of Lady Despard, the center.
Her hospitality was limitless, and the Salon of the Princes, as the vast reception-room was called, was every afternoon the scene of a gathering which almost resembled a royal levee; while the widely-extending grounds were open to those fortunate individuals who had procured an introduction to the wealthy owner.
To the Villa Rimini came also the Florentine nobility; tall, grave-looking Italians, with their high-bred voices and polished manners, men whom Doris always pictured as wearing the silken hose and brocaded tunics of their forefathers in the old Florentine days, when men wore shoes almost as pointed as the swords which were always ready to leap from their scabbards with—or without—the slightest provocation.
Amidst these surroundings, Lady Despard held what might, with little exaggeration, be termed a court; but it might be said, to her credit, the admiration, the adoration she received did not turn her head, probably because she recognized the obvious fact that she shared her throne with the quiet-looking, soft-voiced girl who had come to her as a companion, and whom she had grown to regard and love as a friend.
Once, when the reception was over and the two women were alone, as they were this evening, she looked at Doris, laughingly, and said:
“Well, dear, tired of all the adulation and worship, or are you looking forward to to-morrow’s repetition? Seriously, my dear, I am beginning to be a little jealous; more than half the pretty speeches this afternoon were addressed to Miss Marlowe, and your bouquets were quite as numerous as mine. Beware of vanity, Doris!”