“In their studios,” said Barnabas. “Aunt Olive doesn’t keep all her nephews on the premises. They are the six artists of the courtyard.”
“Oh,” said Sara, with a low laugh, “then you, too, have a magic courtyard.”
“Where is yours?” asked Pippa.
And the Duchessa told her, bringing the sunshine of Italy and the gleam of golden oranges into the studio, bathing it in their light and colour. And Paul listened as he listened always when she spoke, loving the sound of her voice and the magic of her words.
Suddenly as she ended they heard the sound of a violin. It came from across the courtyard and through the partly open window.
“Hush!” said the Duchessa, and she raised her head listening.
When the last sad notes had died away, she looked across at Paul.
“Who is it?” she asked softly, her eyes full of tears, for the sad bitterness of a troubled heart had wailed through the music.
“Michael Chester,” said Paul quietly.
“And why,” asked the Duchessa, “is he not taking London by storm?”