Winter came softly across Italy. There were hours of sunlight, breaths of wind which carried no chill dampness. Here on a sheltered slope, its back to the hills, its windows overlooking stretches of olive groves, a villa had been built. Once a country home for a prince, now patched and painted when a strange tenant took it.
The Morning Post had announced that "Lady Blakeney and Mrs Carteret had left London together for the Continent. Lady Blakeney, having found the strain of the season too much this year, was going to rest by the sea in some quiet part of France." Later, a rumour crept out; there was a reason for the delicacy. After all these years! Denise had just whispered a hint before she left. She was coming home in the spring.
The difficulty of losing oneself was soon forced upon the two wanderers. They had gone without maids; they packed abominably; they were helpless without the attendance they had been used to.
Denise remarked tearfully that she had never put on her own stockings except once, when she was paddling. Esmé, less helpless, helped her, but was querulous, full of fancies, ill-pleased with life.
After a time Denise changed her trim dresses for loose coats and skirts. The two moved to Dinard, met a few friends there. Observant people looked shrewdly significant.
It was time then! When? they asked. Oh! some time in the spring. March, Denise said. Yes, it was quite true.
They wrote to friends at home.
Then came a time when they tried to vanish, went to small towns and fretted in dull hotels.
Denise had made inquiries, found out where there was a good doctor. One day the two came to Riccione, a little Italian town, built on a gentle slope, spying at the distant mountains, able, with powerful glasses, to catch a shimmer of the distant sea.
Luigi Frascatelle, slight and dark, a man immersed in his art of curing, was startled by the visit of two English ladies.