“I am coming. I like experiences,” said Miss Sandiland.
So these three went away, and the others set themselves to climb the steep broken streets towards the ruined Porta S. Giovanni.
“One is rather breathless, but after all it is not such a long step back to the Middle Ages as I thought,” said Mrs Brodrick, as they passed between the rough grey stone houses, and turned to look at the sunset. There before them stretched the great plain, encompassed with hills of full blue-grey. A few small clouds, edged dazzlingly with gold, barred the sun, and hung over the mountains; above these a clear green Perugino sky melted overhead into the tenderest blue, and, lying across the seas of light, stretched clouds of most exquisite form and colour, their edges bright rosy red. Then they set themselves again to climb steep streets, past broad, striding arches, low and dark, houses flinging out vast sheltering eaves, green doors, carnations hanging from windows, birdcages, squalor, vivid colour, women with their waterpots.
“Where are the others?” said Mrs Brodrick suddenly, as they came out on the ruined gate.
“Never mind, granny,” answered Teresa, smiling softly, “I think they are doing very well.”
“You are like other women,” said her grandmother, shaking her head; “you will only see as much as you want to see.”
“At any rate it’s too late now to see more.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know. I’m only convinced. Really and truly I’m delighted,” she went on triumphantly, “and so you ought to be. What could you wish for better? We know all about Mr Wilbraham—except—no, I don’t know his Christian name. Has he one?”
Mrs Brodrick refused to laugh. Teresa gazed at her with mock anxiety.