"No; he had to go home at once for his examination."
"I dare say he'll come over again soon, my dear," said that discriminating lady. She had quite taken Goneril back into her good graces.
They all sat together in the little parlour after dinner. At eight o'clock the door-bell rang. It was now seven weeks since Goneril had blushed with excitement when first she heard that ring; and now she did not blush.
The signorino entered. He walked very straight, and his lips were set. He came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition.
"Mees Goneril," he said, "will you come out on the terrace?—before it is too late," he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty.
"Yes," said Goneril, and they went out together.
"So the cousin did not come?" said the signorino.
"No."
They went on a little way in silence together. The night was moonlit and clear; not a wind stirred the leaves; the sky was like a sapphire, containing but not shedding light. The late oleanders smelt very sweet; the moon was so full that one could distinguish the peculiar greyish-pink of the blossoms.
"It is a lovely night!" said Goneril.