Miss Raby was sitting opposite the famous fresco, which formed the only decoration of the room. It had been discovered during some repairs; and, though the surface had been injured in places, the colours were still bright. Signora Cantù attributed it now to Titian, now to Giotto, and declared that no one could interpret its meaning; professors and artists had puzzled themselves in vain. This she said because it pleased her to say it; the meaning was perfectly clear, and had been frequently explained to her. Those four figures were sibyls, holding prophecies of the Nativity. It was uncertain for what original reason they had been painted high up in the mountains, at the extreme boundary of Italian art. Now, at all events, they were an invaluable source of conversation; and many an acquaintance had been opened, and argument averted, by their timely presence on the wall.
"Aren't those saints cunning!" said an American lady, following Miss Raby's glance.
The lady's father muttered something about superstition. They were a lugubrious couple, lately returned from the Holy Land, where they had been cheated shamefully, and their attitude towards religion had suffered in consequence.
Miss Raby said, rather sharply, that the saints were sibyls.
"But I don't recall sibyls," said the lady, "either in the N.T. or the O."
"Inventions of the priests to deceive the peasantry," said the father sadly. "Same as their churches; tinsel pretending to be gold, cotton pretending to be silk, stucco pretending to be marble; same as their processions, same as their—(he swore)—campaniles."
"My father," said the lady, bending forward, "he does suffer so from insomnia. Fancy a bell every morning at six!"
"Yes, ma'am; you profit. We've stopped it."
"Stopped the early bell ringing?" cried Miss Raby.
People looked up to see who she was. Some one whispered that she wrote.