Nevertheless, notwithstanding Mrs. Hunstanton’s objections to the whole business, she took a good deal of trouble that evening in enlightening the inexperienced travellers, who had a thousand questions to ask.
“When I was at Geneva, there was a light kind of challis which I wore—a kind of dust-colour—with flowers upon it,” said Mrs. Norton.
“Oh, not dust-colour, dear auntie; let it be grey,” said Sophy.
They were all in a flutter of expectation and excitement, eager to be told if new outfits were necessary, and a total change of raiment, as if they had been going to India. For Mrs. Norton, with no rent to pay, was rich enough to indulge Sophy with several new dresses if necessary, and would have liked the business. Mrs. Hunstanton cut them very short. “I hope you don’t think you are going to eternal summer,” she said.
“No, indeed—until we get away from this sad world altogether, Mrs. Hunstanton.”
Sophy had no desire to escape from this sad world. She said, “But it is much warmer. It is to take away my cough; and Reginald—of course Reginald goes for the warm weather?”
“Equable, equable. We don’t jump up and down the thermometer as we do at home. And the place is very dull. You can’t think how dull it is—high houses: if you live on the second floor—and unless you are rich you must live on the second, or even the third floor—you can’t even see the street. As for a glimmer of sunshine, that is past praying for, if you happen to be on the wrong side. And no society, or next to none. The Italians are very exclusive; and the English—well, the less said about the English the better,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, in her serious vein.
The two little ladies looked at each other. Tears sprang to Sophy’s eyes, who was the one most easily moved. “We must go now,” she said, “to please Diana.” And then, after a pause, “Diana is so kind. Perhaps she is too kind, auntie. If it had not been all settled for us—you know there are other places which are not dull.”
“And ungrateful, too!” Mrs. Hunstanton said to herself; but she said nothing more about the dulness of Pisa. She gave them some small instructions, which restored their cheerfulness; and told them when she meant to start. And though they were damped, their courage rose after the interview was over. “If it was as bad as she says, who would wish to go there?” said Mrs. Norton, with unusual shrewdness. “They are going themselves, so we must have some society. Depend upon it, dear, Diana would not send you if she were not sure it was for your good.”
Sophy, who had no doubt on this subject, accepted the assurance very sweetly; and Mr. Hunstanton, who met them on the road, gave them much greater encouragement. They had come out next day in Diana’s own pony-carriage, which neither of them had courage to drive, and they met him on the road, trudging along in his gaiters. “My wife would not give you much advice,” he said; “you should have come to me. Take alpaca and that sort of thing, Mrs. Norton. Don’t you call it alpaca? or merino, is it? Not too thin, nor yet too thick. You will enjoy it very much. None of those blighting colds we have here, but an equable, pleasant temperature. You can always go out every day, and a little pleasant society always at your command. We know people everywhere; and, of course, wherever we are, after knowing you so intimately as Diana’s friends, and all that, there will be a corner for you.”