"The lad Marsh would have uncommonly liked an invitation to come with us to-day," he said, about midway in the drive. "What precious mischief we could have made by asking him, Hannah!"
"There's no room for him, fortunately."
"Oh yes; up on the box."
His eye twinkled as he looked at Cecily. She questioned him.
"Where would be the mischief, Mr. Bradshaw?"
"He talks nonsense, my dear," interposed Mrs. Bradshaw. "Pay no attention to him."
Miriam had heard now and then of Clifford Marsh. She met Jacob's smile, and involuntarily checked it by her gravity.
"We might have asked the Denyers as well," said Cecily, "and have had another carriage, or gone by train."
Mr. Bradshaw chuckled for some minutes at this proposal, but his wife would not allow him to pursue the jest.
They lunched at the Hotel Diomede before entering the precincts of the ruins. Mr. Bradshaw had invariably a splendid appetite, and was by this time skilled in ordering the meals that suited him. The few phrases of Italian which he had appropriated were given forth ore rotundo, with Anglo-saxon emphasis on the o's, and accompanied with large gestures. His mere appearance always sufficed to put landlords and waiters into their most urbane mood; they never failed to take him for one of the English nobility—a belief confirmed by the handsomeness of his gratuities. Mrs. Bradshaw was not, perhaps, the ideal lady of rank, but the fine self-satisfaction on her matronly visage, the good-natured disdain with which she allowed herself to be waited upon by foolish foreigners, her solid disregard of everything beyond the circle of her own party, were impressive enough, and exacted no little subservience.