Whatever may have been the failings of the poor gentleman—and doubtless they were many and varied—he had shown a pretty taste in the designing and building of Venta Villa and a wise expenditure of his—or rather other people's—money. The house stood high, having the appearance of being propped up by a series of little lawns and white terraces. The steps leading from the front portico, widening out as they descended, gave upon a square courtyard in which played curiously-carved little fountains. Palms in green tubs lined this pathway of steps, and the banks of the lawns were gay with flowering shrubs.
Miss Baxendale, looking adorable in an old rose, tailor-made gown, that set off the slender lines of her little figure to perfection, stood on the top step debating how and where to spend the hour or so before déjeuner.
It was a glorious morning in late January, and the girl's eyes and cheeks glowed with health as she drank in the delicious morning air. Below her the promenade was bright with a happy, well-dressed crowd, the sprinkling of uniforms adding greatly to the gaiety of the scene. Slender victorias and smart dog-carts trotted up and down under the acacias, and shapely motors threaded their noiseless way in and out of the slower traffic, the sun glinting bravely upon their polished brass and silver.
So occupied was the little lady with the novelty and beauty of her surroundings, that she did not at first notice the scarlet and black figure which had detached itself from the crowd of promenaders and now stood trying to attract her attention at the gateway of the lower courtyard. When she did so, she smiled, and waving her long white gloves, ran lightly down to him.
It cannot be said that she was in any way attracted to Lieutenant Gaspar Mozara, in fact, had she asked herself the question, she would have said that she disliked him, but she was gracious to the young soldier from a sense of duty to his uncle, for since presenting Mr. Baxendale's letter to Señor Luazo, the old aristocrat had done everything in his power to make their stay on the island a pleasant one.
As to the true object of their coming to San Pietro, Galva had been willing, as in Paris, to let things in the mean time shape themselves. Señor Luazo also, when put in possession of all the facts, advised caution.
There seemed to her something horrible in the thought of "plotting" in this gay little kingdom. To her the name of "plot" meant bloodshed and hardships, and the world in all its beauty was so new, and seemed so good to her, that she was loath to endanger her newly-acquired paradise. She had even told Edward that she had no immediate desire to be a queen of anywhere, let alone San Pietro—life in the little villa, overlooking the bay, seemed to her far more desirable than existence in the rather ugly royal palace on the hills behind the town—the palace with its long rows of square windows, that reminded her of a workhouse. And in her own heart she was looking forward to the visit to Paris in a year, and her thoughts ran on the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer more often than Mr. Sydney or Anna suspected. She told herself that she did not want to take that journey as a queen, with a crowd of irritating courtiers and maids-of-honour.
"I suppose this is the height of the season, Lieutenant Mozara," she said, indicating the butterfly throng moving round them as they made their way along the boulevard; "how happy and gay they all seem, and what a happy and gay little kingdom you have here—laughter, laughter everywhere."
"Yes, Miss Baxendale, it is the season—we have a long one. We are always happy here; it is only in the height of summer that it is quiet, and then there's nobody here to see it. All these villas are empty then, and everybody who is anybody is in London or Paris. When the king dies, however——"
"Why, is King Enrico very ill?"