“So you have been happy,” said Miss Trelawny. She was in her room at her hotel, lying upon a sofa, not because of fatigue so much as to please the two little women who were fluttering about her, and to whom it was a matter of conventional necessity, that having just “come off a journey,” a lady ought to be fatigued and should “lie down.” Diana, in her perfect health and vigour, had thrown off all her tiredness in a night’s rest; but Mrs. Norton did not think this possible, and was doubtful even whether it was right.

“Oh, very happy,” said Sophy; “everybody has been kind to us. We have had the most delightful parties—little dances even: and almost everybody has a reception one night in the week. And it is so beautiful! and all the churches and things to go and see; and the alabaster shops: and Mr. Pandolfini has been so kind.”

“Yes, Diana, it has been very nice indeed,” said her aunt; “everybody is kind, as Sophy says. So interested in her, seeing that she was delicate——”

“Oh, auntie, I am not delicate now—my cough is quite, quite gone. I feel as if I could do anything. Fancy, Diana, Mr. Pandolfini took us all over the Cathedral and up the Leaning Tower, and to see everything; and then there was a little impromptu dance at the Winthrops—Americans, you know—and I danced—I danced with him alone four dances. I was quite ashamed of myself——”

“Is Mr. Pandolfini him alone?” said Diana, laughing; “but what does all this mean? For I thought Mrs. Hunstanton said there was no society in Pisa——”

“She must have been in an ill temper that day,” said Sophy; “there never was such delightful society anywhere, never! Oh, Diana, you will enjoy it so; everything is so lovely! The Cathedral alone, when you go over it as you ought, and the Campo Santo, and all the pictures. Mr. Pandolfini knows them all, every one, and tells you everything. Oh, Mr. Pandolfini is so kind!”

“Ah, little one, is it so?” said Diana, looking up at her with a smile. But Mrs. Norton interposed hastily—

“Sophy always thinks everybody is so kind that shows a natural interest in her. She is so ridiculously humble-minded. But even a virtue should not be carried too far, should it? We must not say a word against Mrs. Hunstanton, who has been a very good friend to us; but what she said about society was quite a mistake. The society is very good. I need not tell you, my dear Diana, that Sophy is a little goose, and knows nothing: all society is good to her when people are kind to her; but I have a little more experience. The Hunstantons themselves, of course we know what they are—very good friends to us and very nice, and everything one could desire—but not perhaps, you know, the very crÊme de la crÊme.”

“Ah, indeed,” said Diana, with a smile; “and who then are the crÊme de la crÊme?”

“Oh, we must not try to prejudice you,” said Mrs. Norton; “you will see for yourself. Everybody of course will be glad to see you, Diana. But I must say I think it is the greatest testimony to people’s disinterestedness that they have been so good to us. We are not wealthy, you know, nor great ladies; but everybody has seen my Sophy’s sweetness, Diana. That is what goes to my heart. They do all so appreciate Sophy——”

“Oh, auntie, how can you say so?” cried Sophy, rosy with blushes, running to her, and clasping her arms round her. “Fancy anybody thinking of poor little me! They like me because I am your child.”

Diana lay on her sofa and laughed very softly to herself. The mutual admiration amused, and it did not displease her. Mrs. Hunstanton would have taken it very differently, but Diana could not but be amused. “Come,” she said, “it is not kind to leave me in so much lower a place. I am only to be received, because I am Miss Trelawny; that is hard upon me. I should like to be liked for myself too.”

“O Diana! you!—as if any one would look at me when you are there!” cried Sophy, with a blush and flutter, running to kiss her friend; while Mrs. Norton remonstrated more gravely—

“My dear Diana, you are a person of importance, we all know, in every way. You are so clever, very different from either Sophy or me: besides being a great lady, which, of course, opens every door. You must not grudge us, dear, a little interest that people take in us, because we are quite unimportant. It is her innocence, you know, that interests everybody—such a little white dove of a creature—and partly, too, because you have been such a friend to us, Diana. Everybody knows how kind you have been.”

This silenced Diana, who had no mind to be commended for her kindness. She told Sophy where to find certain little boxes of gloves and trifling ornaments which she had bought in her passage through Paris, and so turned the course of the conversation. They were much delighted as a matter of course with their presents, and most eager to get a little information about the fashions, which Diana, who got her dresses in Paris, must be so well qualified to give. Then Diana’s maid was called, and the last gown was brought out, and examined with the greatest interest, Diana looking on from her sofa, always with a smile. They were not rich enough to have their dresses from M. Worth; but they were not at all disposed to wear things that were out of fashion. Why should they? and both the aunt and the niece were very serious in their conviction that it was a great advantage to be able to study Diana’s things, and see exactly what was the newest trimming, and how “a really good” gown was made. Mrs. Norton was very clever with her needle, and thought nothing of altering the trimming of a dress when she saw a newer fashion, or even of changing the cut of the garment itself (if the stuff would allow). “It is so much more easy when you have a pattern before your eyes instead of only the plate in a fashion-book,” she said. Diana’s maid, Morris, had her own opinion about this, and was indignant that her mistress’s things should be copied; but Diana threw open her wardrobe with that absurd liberality which shocked Morris as much as it shocked Mrs. Hunstanton. They did not understand how it was possible that she could be amused by the sight of those two heads so closely bent over her best dress, pinching the flutings with their inquisitive fingers, and examining with such precision the way in which it was looped up. “What a blessing that your new grey is not made up!” said the aunt to the niece; “I see exactly how this is done.” “You are so clever, auntie,” said Sophy, admiringly. “The front width forms a tablier,” said Mrs. Norton, “and the back is in a pouff. See! nothing could be more simple; and yet how handsome it looks! To be sure, yours is not such handsome silk as Diana’s; but with your light little figure——” “And, dear auntie, don’t you think your plum-colour could be altered to look like this, with a new flounce at the bottom? I must not be selfish, and let you think always of me,” said Sophy. How angry Mrs. Hunstanton would have been, and how Maria Morris gloomed at the two little ladies! But Diana, in the background, was amused and pleased on the whole. How could it be supposed to harm her? And it pleased them; and to see them fluttering over it, consulting, and putting their little heads on one side, and examining all the seams, and looking as if something much more serious than affairs of the State were in hand, was as good as a play.

She had bought a box of gloves for Sophy, and a pretty parasol and ribbons for Mrs. Norton. The first of these had created a slight disappointment, she could see, gloves being then cheap in Tuscany. “But I am sure it was most kind of Diana to think of you at all: and they are such beautiful gloves,” said Mrs. Norton, in a reassuring tone. Diana felt a little mortified to find that she had thus brought, as it were, coals to Newcastle; but even that amused her more or less—for her little protÉgÉe was already more learned than she in the smaller necessities of the toilet, and where things could be got cheap.

Diana got up from the sofa while they were occupied with her wardrobe, and betook herself to her letters. Hers was not the usual lady’s budget of not very necessary correspondences: already the questions, the references, the applications which weary out the absent who are involved in the real business of life, and make a holiday almost more troublesome than a working day, had begun. She had to write to her steward, to her lawyer, and to more than one of the pensioners on her civil list, who thought it their duty to make deferential communications to her about their families, and consult her as to the steps to be taken for placing Willie in an office or Fanny at school. No one could believe that it was not personal love which made Diana good to them—a perception of their own excellences, not general in the world; and this sentiment in her mind no doubt made all the trouble she took a pleasure to her. This conviction arose from no protestations of affection on Diana’s part; but simply from the fact of her beneficence, which otherwise no one could understand, not even her friends. She replied as best she could to those applications about Willie and Fanny, approving generally of what was being done, and sending a little present to make up for the deficiency in interest which she felt rather guilty about, but which no one suspected. “How you can be fond of so many commonplace people is a thing I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, who came in while she was thus occupied. “I am not fond of them,” said Diana, humbly. Her friend shook her head with undisguised impatience. She was rather shocked even by the idea. “You are either the most affectionate person in the world, or you are the greatest deceiver,” she cried, in her noncomprehension, stung to warmer energy than usual by the sight of Mrs. Norton and Sophy in the background, still examining the new mode.

“I am either a fool or a humbug: is that what you would say?”

“Not a humbug, perhaps, not a conscious humbug: a cynic, that is what it is. You despise everybody, therefore you can manage to be good to them. Look at that now! I would not put up with it for a moment—turning over all your things—making your very gowns common——”

This is a sort of desecration that goes to a woman’s heart—to bring down her newest fashion to the common level—to copy in poor materials the very finest and newest cuts! “I could not away with it!” said Mrs. Hunstanton, and she meant what she said.

Diana laughed, which was quite exasperating in the circumstances. “They like it,” she said, “and it does me no harm. I am very glad to see Sophy looking so well——”

“My dear Diana, Sophy never looked the least ill, except in your anxious eyes. Well, I don’t intend to say anything more about it; you chose to do it, and that is enough. Tom is as ridiculous as you are. He insists that I should take them everywhere, and introduce them to all the people we know. I allow that they are very good to Reginald—oh, very good. They actually make his life happier, and of course I am grateful. It is not that I dislike them or grudge anything I can do; but you, Diana, you! to waste so much affection upon two little selfish——”

“Unselfish, you mean.”

“It comes to the same thing,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, in her fervour. “Oh yes, they are always giving in, thinking what you will like, and deferring to each other; and the result is that they have everything they wish, which, rich as you are and clever as you are, Diana, is more than could be said for you——”

“I have a great many things I like,” said Diana, quietly; “no one has more; and I have my own way—you don’t consider the blessedness of that. Above all things in the world, one likes one’s own way.”

“You have your own way by letting every one have theirs,” said her friend. “What is Sophy about? Are you going to copy all Diana’s things, one after the other? But you must allow for the difference of style: Diana’s things will never suit you.”

“Indeed Sophy is a great deal more sensible than to think she could be like Diana,” said Mrs. Norton, with dignity; “there is a great difference of style; and different people like different things,” she added, oracularly, “some one, some another.” Mrs. Norton felt herself able to show fight with the backing up of Diana behind her, and even, with that moral support, felt strong enough slightly to under-value Diana: a whimsical way, yet a very genuine one, of proving unbounded faith in her. For the moment indeed she had an easy victory, for Mrs. Hunstanton was struck dumb by the audacious idea that Sophy’s “style” should be identified in opposition to Diana’s, and was silent against her will, finding no words at her command to say. And the others gathered up their presents, while the little scratch of Diana’s pen was the only sound clearly audible. Sophy turned over her gloves half regretfully, half pleased. They were beautiful gloves—some of them twelve-buttons! which was wonderful—much better than she ever would have herself bought; but then the Tuscan gloves did very well, and if it had only occurred to Diana to bring her something more useful! “But how good of Diana to think of you at all!” Mrs. Norton was whispering in her ear.

“I don’t hear you talking,” said Diana, “if it’s out of consideration for me, never mind. You don’t disturb me, and my letters are almost done.”

“You must go over all the sights,” said Mrs. Hunstanton; “my husband will give us no peace till you have seen everything. How pleased he will be to have a new person to take about! He will not spare you a single picture or a single chapel. He likes to do things thoroughly.”

“But Diana must not do too much,” said Mrs. Norton, “after such a long journey. She must keep quite quiet for a day or two, and lie on the sofa. Indeed I should have the blinds down, if she would be guided by me. She must not try her nerves too much.”

“Have I any nerves?” said Diana, laughing; “to lie on the sofa would make an end of me. But I don’t think I am good for sight-seeing. It is quite enough at present to say when one wakes, This is Italy. Fancy being in Italy! What could one desire more?”

“But, dear Diana, that is nothing!” cried Sophy, great in her superior knowledge. “Wait till you have seen Pisa properly—oh, only wait a little! You don’t know—you can’t imagine how nice it is?”

Mrs. Hunstanton cast a look of impatience upon this outburst of enthusiasm. She had put up with these little women good-humouredly enough hitherto, and had been rather grateful for their good offices in respect to Reginald; but Diana’s presence made a change. Their little ways exasperated her as soon as their protectress and patron appeared on the scene. They were Diana’s folly—they were the one thing unaccountable in her, at least the most prominent thing; and as soon as Mrs. Hunstanton saw that familiar smile of kindness on Diana’s lip, she became censorious, critical, impatient, as when she was at home.

“There are much finer places in the world than Pisa,” she said. “We need not raise Diana’s expectations; but still there is something to see, and Mr. Hunstanton——”

“Oh, but please, Diana, let Mr. Pandolfini go too!” cried Sophy, irrepressible. “No one knows so well as he does; and he is so clever and so good-natured. He will take you everywhere. I never understood anything till he explained it. Oh please, Mrs. Hunstanton, let Mr. Pandolfini take Diana! He is the best.”

“Sophy!” said her aunt in an undertone, raising a warning finger. “It is not that she does not appreciate dear Mr. Hunstanton—he is always so kind; but Mr. Pandolfini being a stranger——”

“Oh, I am not jealous for my husband,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with a laugh.

Sophy did not appreciate either the warning or the displeasure. She babbled on about the sights she had seen, while Diana listened and admired. She knew a great deal more, and had seen a great deal more than Diana, not only the Cathedral and the Campo Santo, but an alabaster shop which Mr. Pandolfini had told her was very good, and not so dear as some of the others; and where Sophy had bought the dearest little pair of oxen with a funny waggon, “just like what you see the peasants have,” she said, with a sense of knowing all about it which was very pleasant. Diana put up her letters composedly, and let the girl run on. Mrs. Hunstanton felt that she herself would have been quite incapable of so much patience, and this made her still more angry in spite of herself. But she had made up her mind to stay them out, and got rid of them at last triumphantly, by reminding Sophy that there was choir-practice that afternoon at the Winthrops, who had “interested themselves very much” in the English service, and were very musical. This master-stroke left Mrs. Hunstanton in possession of the field. She breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone.

“That little Sophy is beyond anything,” she cried. “Why, she patronises you, Diana, for being foolish enough to send her to Italy when she had no more need to go——”

“Hush,” said Diana, putting up a hand as if to close her friend’s mouth; “but tell me, who is this Mr. Pandolfini? Sophy does not seem able to talk of anything else. Poor child! has she come out here innocently to meet her fate?”

“Diana, don’t be so ridiculous about that child; you make me so angry. You do nothing but encourage her in every kind of nonsense——”

“Is love nonsense?—and marrying? I thought you were always preaching their advantages.”

“Ah, to you! that is a different thing altogether—except that there is no one half good enough for you. You! Yes, of course we shall all be too happy to see a Prince Consort.”

“There will never be a Prince Consort,” said Diana; “if you knew what it is to be free, after being under somebody’s orders all your life!”

“But a good husband does not give you orders; only men in novels, so far as I can see, call upon their wives to obey them in that melodramatic way. If Tom were to do it, I cannot say I should be angry: it would be too comical—I should laugh. Marriage is not slavery, Diana.”

“But if I don’t mean to try it, why should I? there are quantities of people in the world to marry and be married. It is no sin, is it? but rather a variety. Now, acknowledge that I am convenient now and then, from the mere fact that there is only one of me! But it is the whole duty of woman in Sophy’s case. To marry and to marry well—to get a kind good man, who will not object to her aunt. So I repeat, Who is Mr. Pandolfini? To call her by such a big-sounding name would be very droll. But Italians are kind. Tell me who he is?”

“He is—well, he is not for Sophy, if that is what you mean. The ridiculous idea! Sophy—a little nobody, a blanche Miss! If you knew the man, you would laugh——”

“But you don’t laugh——”

“No; because men are such fools! and you never know what absurdity they may be guilty of when a girl has that little admiring manner, and looks up to them. Still, the Cavaliere has better taste—he has more sense. He might die for you, Diana; but that little thing——”

“For me!” Diana laughed, but a faint colour came upon her face. “That means, I suppose, that a tall dark woman seems more in this hero’s way than a little light one? Let us hope that the law of contraries will bring them together. I should not like little Sophy to be disappointed—and her aunt.”

“You are really too absurd about Sophy and her aunt. Is a man to marry both of them? But he is my friend, and I can’t have him brought down to such a fate. If that is what you mean, Diana, it must be a stand-up fight between you and me. I shall not give in if I can help it; and I am sure he is not such a fool.”

“There is a wavering in your voice which sounds like alarm,” said Diana, laughing; “but I have no evil intentions in respect to your Mr. Pandolfini. I shall not stand up and fight. If Sophy cannot do it for herself, I shall not interfere.”

“Sophy!” said Mrs. Hunstanton, with vast disdain; but nevertheless there was a slight quaver in her voice.