‘We saw the door open, signorina, and came in,’ said the beautiful boy; ‘but we can see it as often as we want—twice every Sunday.’
His voice was sweet; his accent more than half Italian.
‘Do you live here then? What is your name?’ she asked, wishing to draw him out.
‘No; I do not live here. I am only staying a few months here. I am called Jerome Wellfield, and the abbey belongs to my father.’
‘Indeed! Would you not like to live in such a beautiful home?’
‘If it were not so cold in England I would; but I like Italy: it is warm there.’
‘Yes. And you—what are you called?’ she asked, turning to the other lad.
‘John Leyburn,’ he made answer, looking at her with clear, considerate, rather light-brown eyes, which looked very ineffective beside the velvet softness and darkness of young Wellfield’s.
‘You live here, I am sure.’
‘Yes; I live at Abbot’s Knoll with my father and mother.’