"I do so hope we may be friends," Vera said eagerly. In a hotel where almost everybody was elderly, the idea of a girl friend was delightful.
Lady Felicia, who had been very severe in her warnings against hotel-acquaintance, answered blandly, though with a touch of condescension.
"If the girl is really nice, and has been well brought up, I should see no objections to Vera's knowing her."
"Thank you, Grannie," cried Vera. "She is sure to be nice!"
"Signor Provana's daughter cannot fail to be nice," protested the doctor.
Lady Felicia was dubious.
"An Italian!" she said. "She may be precocious—artful—of doubtful morality."
"Signor Provana's daughter! Impossible!"
Nothing happened to stir the stagnant pool of life at San Marco during the next day and the day after that. Vera asked Madame Canincio when Signor Provana and his daughter were expected, but could obtain no precise information. The rooms were ready. Madame Canincio showed Vera the salon, which she had seen in its spacious emptiness, with the shabby hotel furniture, but to which Signor Provana's additions had given an air of splendour. Sofas and easy chairs had been sent from Genoa, velvet curtains and portières, bronze lamps, and silver candlesticks, Persian carpets, everything that makes for comfort and luxury; and the bedroom for the young lady had been even more carefully prepared; but, beside her own graceful pillared bedstead, with its lace mosquito curtains, was the narrow bed for the night-nurse, which gave its sad indication of illness.
The flowers were ready in the vases, filling the salon with perfume.