Lady Caryisfort, I am sorry to say, showed herself the most ill-bred upon this occasion—she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, but could not altogether restrain the very slightest of giggles. Ombra opened her eyes, and looked at her mother; while poor Kate, trembling, horrified, and overwhelmed with shame, shrank behind Mrs. Anderson.
‘It was not my fault,’ she gasped.
‘Don’t think anything of it, my love,’ whispered Mrs. Anderson, in consolation. ‘They mean nothing by it—it is the commonest thing in the world.’ A piece of consolation which was not, however, quite so consolatory as it was intended to be.
But she kept her niece by herself after this incident as long as it was practicable; and so it came about that the party divided into three. Lady Caryisfort and Antonio went first, Mrs. Anderson and Kate next, and Ombra and Bertie Eldridge last of all. As Kate moved gradually on, she heard that a very close and low-toned conversation was going on behind her; and Ombra did not now seem so much annoyed by Bertie Hardwick’s absence as she had been a little while ago. Was she—an awful revelation seemed to burst upon Kate—was Ombra a coquette? She dismissed the thought from her mind as fast as possible; but after feeling so uncomfortable about her cousin’s sudden interest in Bertie, she could not help feeling now a certain pity for him, as if he too, like herself, were slighted now. Not so would Kate herself have treated anyone. It was not in her, she said to herself, to take up and cast down, to play with any sentiment, whether friendship or anything else; and in her heart she condemned Ombra, though secretly she was not sorry. She was a coquette—that was the explanation. She liked to have both the young men at her feet, without apparently caring much for either. This was a sad accusation to bring against Ombra, but somehow Kate felt more kindly disposed towards her after she had struck this idea out.
When they reached the loggia, the table was found to be covered with an elegant little breakfast, which reminded Kate of the pretty meals to be seen in a theatre, which form part of so many pretty comedies. It was warm in the sunshine, and there was a scaldina, placed Italian fashion, under the table, for the benefit of the chilly; and an old man, in a faded livery, served the repast, which he had not cooked, solely because it had been ordered from an hotel, to poor old Girolamo’s tribulation. But his master had told him the reason why, and the old servant had allowed that the expenditure might be a wise one. Kate found, to her surprise, that she was the special object of the old man’s attention. He ran off with a whole string of ‘Che! che’s,’ when he had identified her, which he did by consultation of his master’s eye. ‘Bella Signorina, this is from the old Buoncompagni vineyards,’ he said, as he served to her some old wine; and, with another confidential movement, touched her arm when he handed her the fruit, ‘From the gardens, Signorina mia,’ he whispered; and the honey ‘from Count Antonio’s own bees up on the mountains;’ and, ‘Cara Signorina mia, this the Contessa’s own hands prepared for those beautiful lips,’ he said, with the preserves. He hung about her; he had eyes for no one else.
‘What is the old man saying to you, Kate?’ said her aunt.
‘Nothing,’ answered Kate, half amused and half distressed; and she met Count Antonio’s eye, and they both blushed, to the admiration of the beholders.
This was how the visit terminated. Old Girolamo followed them obsequiously down the great staircase, bowing, with his hand upon his breast, and his eyes upon the young English lady, who was as rich as the Queen of Sheba, and as beautiful as the Holy Mother herself. And Kate’s heart beat with all the little magic flutter of possibilities that seemed to gather round her. If her heart had been really touched, she would not have divined what it all meant so readily; but it was only her imagination that was touched, and she saw all that was meant. It was the first time that she had seen a man pose himself before her in the attitude of love, and (though no doubt it is wrong to admit it) the thing pleased her. She was not anxious, as she ought to have been, to preserve Antonio’s peace of mind. She was flattered, amused, somewhat touched. That was what he meant. And for herself, she was not unwilling to breathe this delicate incense, and be, as other women, wooed and worshipped. Her ideas went no further. Up to this moment it was somewhat consolatory, and gave her something pleasant to think of. Poor old Girolamo! Poor old palace! She liked their master all the better for their sake.