"No doubt I am extravagant, Louise," she confessed humbly, "but the flowers usually come from the gardens or the mountains, and are not charged for in the bills."
Louise smiled approval of this reply; she had studied life in many aspects. She liked Mrs. Allonby, whom she had made acquainted with the whole of her family history, and of whom she had asked and received counsel and munificent tips—but the latter unasked.
"Stupid boy!" Ermengarde said to herself, with vexation. She had dined publicly in his flowers night after night, beginning with the tea-roses he gave her in the garden on her arrival. And the crocodile at the Carnival had thrown her Parma violets. Yes, and she had worn them—idiot!—without thinking. Luckily, nobody would know—except Miss Boundrish and her mother, and—— But, after all, what are flowers? and what did this French boy's impertinence or ignorance matter?
A wet day, accompanied by a furious headache and the state of mind Germans call Katzenjammer, followed the thrilling afternoon of real life at Monte Carlo. Odd to think that it was actually raining at Les Oliviers. But not common, dreary rain, such as makes London streets a foretaste of the future habitation of sinners. No, fairy rain, clean, bright, transparent, a sort of crystalline veil through which that beautiful Southern shore could be seen with undazzled eyes, and yet more distinctly than in the clear sunlight, like a lovely human form, lovelier through transparent drapery. The clouds were not leaden, but of pearly lustre; the feathery, misty grace of olive-woods was no longer confused with the heavier mass and colour of pines; the delicate symmetry of those flights of steps that were vine-terraces, connected by miniature flights that were real stairs, came into view; every solitary cottage and every towered hamlet stood out clear on its crest beneath the solemn mountain peaks. The sea behind those shining curtains of moving rain was still blue, and there was leisure now to be glad of a four-square house on a mountain ridge, with a wide and glorious prospect from every window, and a different view on every side of the house.
Mr. Welbourne was trying to catch an impression from five sides at once, and in despair wandered up and down the corridors looking at each in turn. An amateur was thumping music-hall melodies on the ground-floor piano, which was out of tune, while another played fragments of Wagner in the drawing-room immediately above it, and Miss Boundrish practised solfeggi in the room over that.
And yet Ermengarde's headache and Katzenjammer—or mental atmosphere sequent on nights enjoyed less wisely than well—steadily increased as the day wore on. After luncheon, quite overcome and flattened out by these afflictions, she retired shivering to bed. On this the woman of mystery, at once transformed into Sir Walter Scott's ministering angel, tucked her up cosily, kindled a wood fire on her hearth, and sat silent and thoughtful in its light, softly blowing up the logs with a little carved bellows fetched from her own room. To her the tinkle and plash of this sweet, clear rain was soothing after the long dryness, and the silvery light a relief from the perpetual purple splendour of sky and sea. Ermengarde, soothed by these attentions and the soft sound of the bellows, watched the fire-light play on Agatha's still, clear-cut features and graceful form, and meditated on her failings. Sad that one so fair should be presumably so false, paying imaginary visits to fictitious aunts, and conspiring with bearded Anarchists and beardless prodigals in goodness knew what wickedness; but she enjoyed being petted, and knew that in their common estimation of Miss Boundrish's varied social charm Agatha and she were one. There was something that strongly attracted her in this mysterious young person. Might this fine nature have been perverted by unfortunate surroundings and evil example in youth? Who could tell?
The Good, but suspected, Samaritan read her to sleep, and on her waking made her excellent tea, unobtrusively and silently in her own room, and brought it in with biscuits, and shared it in a comfortable, home-like way; whereupon Ermengarde's heart expanded and her tongue was loosed, and she recounted her ill-fortune at the tables, and received sympathy untouched by scorn.
In return she heard—in the spirit of a Sadducee—somewhat of the family history of Miss Somers' "connexion by marriage." Mr. Paul's mother, it appeared, had married twice; her second husband and that youth's step-father being Miss Somers' uncle. Mr. Paul's mother was consequently her aunt—a species of relative that Ermengarde was inclined to regard as shadowy and thin, and much too capable of multiplication at will.
"How many aunts have you, dear Miss Somers?" she asked gently; "it is sometimes an advantage to possess several of them."
"So Ivor and I call ourselves cousins," Miss Somers added, not enumerating her aunts. "And, as I have always been very fond of my aunt, I am very much interested in this boy, and exceedingly anxious that he should keep straight."