It was under the shade of these sombre trees that a breakfast table stood, awaiting occupation, on this particular morning at the hour of nine. The table in itself formed a picture, for in the warm shafts of sun that slipped between the cypress trees, silver and glass gleamed invitingly, while in their midst an immense Venetian bowl filled with roses made a patch of burning colour. Everything was attractive, refined, appetising; and yet, for some undiscernible reason, the inmates of the villa appeared in no haste to enjoy the meal that awaited them.
For fully ten minutes after the coffee had been laid upon the table, the Italian man-servant stood immovably attentive, his back stiff, his glance resting expectantly upon the verandah; then his natural interest in the meal caused him to alter his position and cast a sympathetic eye upon the coffee in imminent danger of growing cold.
Five more minutes passed. He looked again at the villa; sighed, and gracefully flicked a fly from the basket of crisp rolls. Then suddenly he stood newly erect and attentive, as his quick ear caught the swish of a skirt and the sound of a light step. A moment later Clodagh emerged upon the sunny terrace, followed by her dog Mick.
At any period of existence, four years is a span of time to be reckoned with. But when four years serves to bridge the gulf between childhood and womanhood, its power is well-nigh limitless. As Clodagh stepped through the long window of her room and came slowly out into the morning light, it would have been a close observer who would, at a first glance, have recognised the unformed girl of four years ago in the graceful, well-dressed woman moving forward through the Italian sunshine. On a second glance, or a third, one would undoubtedly have seen traces of the long, undeveloped limbs in the tall, supple figure; caught a suggestion of the rough luxurious plait in the golden-brown hair coiled about the well-shaped head; and have been fascinated by numerous undeniable and haunting suggestions in contour and colouring. But there memory would have hesitated. The Clodagh who had scoured the woods, scrambled over the rocks, and galloped across the lands of Orristown was no longer visible. Another being, infinitely more distinguished, infinitely more attractive—and yet vaguely deprived of some essential quality—had taken her place. In the four years that had passed since she left Ireland she had, from being a child, become a woman; and below the new beauty that nature had painted upon her face lay an intangible, a poignantly suggested regret for the girlhood that had been denied her.
As she stepped out upon the terrace, she paused for a moment and her eyes travelled mechanically over Florence—warm, beautiful, inert. Then, with the same uninterested calm, she turned slowly towards the breakfast table; but there her glance brightened.
"Oh, letters!" she said aloud; and with an impulsive movement, she hurried forward, letting her elaborate muslin dress trail unheeded behind her.
Scarcely seeing the profound bow with which the man-servant greeted her, she picked up the letters, and scanned them one by one. Then as she disappointedly threw the last back upon the table, she half turned, in acknowledgment of a measured step that came across the terrace from the direction of the house. At the same moment Mick pricked up his ears and slowly wagged his tail, while the Italian servant bent his body in a fresh salutation.
Milbanke—for his was the second step that had disturbed the silence—came forward without haste. Reaching the table, he took Clodagh's left hand and pressed it; then he stooped methodically and patted the dog's head.
"Good-morning!" he said gravely. "Are there any letters?"
"Yes, four; and all for you—as usual."