Despite the heavy heart with which Evarne bade farewell to her home, the weeks occupied by the protracted journey to Naples became a period in which the light-heartedness of youth gradually conquered sorrow. It was so crowded with interest, novelty, fresh sights and experiences, that every week seemed as a month, and her former monotonous existence faded rapidly into the background. She seemed a different being, living in a strange, new world. It was a world in which Leo had never had a place, so that its progress was in no ways affected by his absence. Evarne mourned her father sincerely; shed many tears for him in the silence of the night; and sometimes felt pangs of compunction that novelty and interest should have such powers of overcoming grief. But despite her reluctance to accept their aid, these great forces continued their healing work.

Amid its other charms and novelties, this new life was one totally devoid of the necessity of considering ways and means. The girl's natural tastes were far from simple, and the luxury in which Morris lived and travelled soon seemed not only congenial, but proper and customary.

At Paris, where they stayed some time, she first discovered the subtle delight that lies in the possession of dainty clothes. Her guardian gave her carte blanche at both costumiers and milliners, but, through diffidence, she took little advantage of this generosity. Realising this, he visited one of the leading ateliers, and gave orders direct to madame herself to lavishly stock Evarne's wardrobe.

Thus the girl found herself clad in garments totally different to any she had ever seen—let alone possessed. She reluctantly consented to try to endure corsets, but very soon gave up the attempt in despair. But madame, far from discouraged, exerted her ingenuity to array the girl's lithe yet well-developed young form to the best advantage without any such fictitious aid, and she succeeded even beyond her expectations.

Never before had Evarne realised the latent possibilities of her own figure. She took unconcealed delight in beholding her reflection in the mirror, and positively revelled in her silk linings, silk petticoats, silk stockings, and other hitherto undreamed-of silken luxuries.

Venice was visited, then Ravenna, Florence, Pisa and Rome. Day after day Morris was untiring in the thought and care he took for his new toy. Evarne, apparently, looked upon his utmost and constant attention as merely part of the accepted routine of the journey, and noted it with the quiet indifference of a spoilt beauty. Yet there was no suggestion of coquetry or affectation about the girl. Her mind, as well as her person, was developing on calm, stately and dignified lines.

She was, in her turn, almost as quietly affectionate and attentive to him as she would have been to her father, but the vainest of men could not have persuaded himself that she made the least effort—open or covert—to at all unduly ingratiate herself into his regard. "Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love," sings the wise poet, but Morris had been taught so early and so often how many women are over-eager to be "kind" to a wealthy man, that Evarne's simple ways were attractive by reason of their very novelty. It served as a sauce piquante, and before Naples was reached he felt more genuine love for this sweet child than he had deemed that well-worn article—his heart—would ever again have the good luck to experience.

It was not until they were actually in the train bound for Naples that he broke to her the information that the looked-for introduction to Mrs. Kenyon must be postponed for the present.

"A letter from my wife reached me just before we left Rome," he explained. "She is very nervous, and fears Vesuvius is working up for another eruption. She often thinks that—pure fancy, of course! Anyway she has gone on to Taormina, in Sicily. She will return to Naples when she can muster courage."

"How much she travels about," remarked the unsuspecting Evarne.

"Doesn't she!" agreed Morris with a grim little smile, thinking of the invalid to whom the daily journey from bedroom to boudoir was an arduous undertaking.

Then, noting a troubled expression on Evarne's face as she gazed out of the window at the fast-flying landscape, he asked, with a tiny hint of sadness in his voice—

"Am I such dull company for a bright little girl that you look thus solemn at the prospect of a few more tÊte-À-tÊte meals?"

He took her hand as he spoke. Evarne had long ago got to the point of finding it pleasant to feel her slender fingers enclosed in his strong magnetic clasp. She smiled a little and shook her head slightly in response to his question, but the fingers he held moved restlessly, as if they half-sought to free themselves.

Evarne's mental upbringing and education had been as unusual and unconventional—to say the least of it—as had been her physical training. She learnt the Greek and English alphabets almost simultaneously, and while other damsels of her years were skimming through novelettes, she had been poring over the eternal and inspiring works of the writers of antiquity. Which form of exclusive mental diet created, on the whole, the most impracticable, the most false, the most mischievous ideas when considered in reference to the stern realities of modern life, it is difficult to say. Infinitely more than the average girl of her age did Evarne know of the possible sins of humanity, of the grim tragedies of history; infinitely less of that perhaps more useful field of knowledge—the restrictions, petty malignity, wickedness, and cruelly quick suspicions of modern society.

Nevertheless, an instinct told her that there was a vast difference between travelling under the escort of her guardian to join his wife, and in staying with him at his villa without that lady.

"Do you not think Mrs. Kenyon expects us to go on to her at Sicily?" she suggested in a hesitating voice, divided between her fear of appearing to presume and dictate, and her instinctive shrinking from this new programme.

Morris read the trouble in the girl's mind, and promptly answered in the one and only manner that was calculated to set her thoroughly at ease again.

"When you are comfortably fixed up at Naples I will go on to Taormina and bring back the truant. As to you, my dear, forgive my plain speaking, but it is time you seriously started to study for your future profession. There are excellent Art masters at Naples, and you can draw in the museum there, but in Sicily there is nothing of all this."

As he had foreseen, this business-like view of the proceeding reconciled her to it as nothing else would have done, and it was with a light heart and a smiling face that she first set foot over the threshold of "Mon Bijou."

Morris himself conducted his little guest to the rooms that had been prepared for her occupation. The villa was situated on the heights overlooking the bay, and Evarne, stepping out on to the verandah, stood enthralled by the beauty around. She gazed over the broad expanse of purple sea sparsely dotted with small sails, white and brown—at the island of Capri, haunted by the memory of dark mysteries—at the far distant dome of the Italian heavens that crowned all. Then she let her delighted eyes wander over the picturesque roof-tops of the town to the soft yet never-failing canopy of smoke that mingled itself with billowy white clouds overshadowing the crater of Vesuvius the volcano.

Then she looked at the gardens of the villa itself. There she saw paths made of smooth-coloured pebbles arranged in mosaic designs, winding amid strange and luxurious trees and shrubs and blossoms; saw snowy statues gleaming amid the green growth; saw arbours, set near the scent of orange-blossom or mimosa; while a white marble fountain—an art treasure in itself—gaily tossed upwards a sparkling jet of water, which fell with a gentle splash into a deep, carved basin encircled by thick clumps of flowers.

Overwhelmed by beauty so universal, so lavish, so abundant, she stood rapt until Morris's patience was exhausted. When at length she could be persuaded to pay attention to her apartments she found them, in their way, to be equally enchanting—equally appealing.

The chief room was very large, and decorated with an almost florid luxuriance. Everywhere the eye turned were pictures, statuettes, carved ivories, bowls and vases and bronzes—each the embodiment of some artistic dream. Everything was profuse—there were many books, many mirrors, much gilding, carving, tapestry and embroidery, while masses of vivid flowers scented the air.

The characteristic feature, however, was the mad riot and mingling of every glaring hue, blended together into a bewildering yet exquisite harmony. There was mauve and deepest violet, gold, blue, and a touch of emerald green. The walls were rich crimson, with creamy white introduced into the deep frieze, whereon dancing maidens were moulded in relief. The whole scheme of colour was daring, brilliant, defiant; it suggested life, youth, vitality, pleasure without remorse.

The little bedroom opened out from this. It was daintily small, all white and pale green, the one striking splash of colour being given by a bowl of pink roses. Simple, demure, unassuming, it formed a strange contrast to the tropical violence of its neighbour.

As soon as Evarne was quite alone she placed herself in the centre of the brilliant red room, and pivoting round slowly, surveyed every wall—every corner—anew. It was scarcely three months since she had left the austerity of "The Retreat"—three months in which she had learnt, seen, done and heard more than in all the previous years of her life. In the dazzling luxury of this room the culminating point of the extraordinary difference between the past and the present seemed to be attained. Its mad superabundance of wealth and colour, appealing so forcefully to the emotions, bewildered the child. Everything about it appeared indefinably wrong—almost unnatural—and for a moment the instinctive fear of the unknown gripped her heart.

Suddenly she became apprehensive, afraid of life, of the hidden future and what it held. She felt very young, very ignorant, very helpless—a stranger not only in a far land, but in a strange world. If only Mrs. Kenyon had been here to welcome her! Apparently no one about the place could speak a word of English save Morris himself—and, of course, his valet. Even with the bright little maid who was to attend on her, she had found she could only converse by signs. She walked timidly over the thick, yielding carpet and leant against the open window, breathing deeply of the fresh, pure air. But a little while and her natural courage rallied, the shadow of depression was tossed aside; she turned back into the room, glanced round it once again with sparkling eyes lit up by admiration, and all unconsciously broke into a snatch of joyous song.