“Well,” she called out, “you two got the start of us. I expect you have seen everything.”
“Yes, everything,” said the girl confidently. “There isn’t much, is there? It’s not like Rome, of course.”
“And you’ve a kinder taskmaster. Poor Sylvia,” she went on to Wilbraham; “you know the sort of muddle one gets into with too much sightseeing? That’s where I’ve landed her. I worked her too hard, and I’m not up in things myself, and—I think she’s a good deal mixed by this time,” she ended with a laugh.
“Oh, I don’t think I am,” remonstrated Sylvia, nodding her head; “you know I can find my way about Rome as well as you.”
“So that you won’t be like the lady who asked her husband if she’d seen the Coliseum,” put in Wilbraham, smiling at her.
“No-o-o,” she said, more doubtfully.
“Did she really? I wonder she didn’t remember that, because it’s so big.”
“We’re going on to the piazza,” said Teresa hastily. “Please put us in the way. Oh, look!”
For across the street beyond them swept, with long strides, the figure of Colonel Maxwell. Something—they could not see what—he was clasping in his arms; and at his heels—laden, one with a piece of stone, another with a panel of carving; some (and these were naturally the most clamorous) with only disappointed hopes—ran half-a-dozen or more children. Behind the last, at breathless distance, followed his wife. She waved a despairing greeting to the group, and vanished.
“Actaeon and Diana,” said Miss Sandiland, as soon as she could speak.