The scene which Mr. Courtenay saw when he walked in suddenly to Mrs. Anderson’s drawing-room, was one so different in every way from what he had expected, that he was for the first moment as much taken aback as any of the company. Francesca, who remembered him well, and whose mind was moved by immediate anxiety at the sight of him, had not been able to restrain a start and exclamation, and had ushered him in suspiciously, with so evident a feeling of alarm and confusion that the suspicious old man of the world felt doubly convinced that there was something to conceal. But she had neither time nor opportunity to warn the party; and yet this was how Mr. Courtenay found them. The drawing-room, which looked out on the Lung-Arno, was not small, but it was rather low—not much more than an entresol. There was a bright wood fire on the hearth, and near it, with a couple of candles on a small table by her side, sat Kate, distinctly isolated from the rest, and working diligently, scarcely raising her eyes from her needlework. The centre table was drawn a little aside, for Ombra had found it too warm in front of the fire; and about this the other four were grouped—Mrs. Anderson, working, too, was talking to one of the young men; the other was holding silk, which Ombra was winding; a thorough English domestic party—such a family group as should have gladdened virtuous eyes to see. Mr. Courtenay looked at it with indescribable surprise. There was nothing visible here which in the least resembled a foreign Count; and Kate was, wonderful to tell, left out—clearly left out. She was sitting apart at her little table near the fire, looking just a little weary and forlorn—a very little—not enough to catch Mrs. Anderson’s eye, who had got used to this aspect of Kate. But it struck Mr. Courtenay, who was not used to it, and who had suspected something very different. He was so completely amazed, that he could not think it real. That little old woman must have given some signal; they must have been warned of his coming; otherwise it was altogether impossible to account for this extraordinary scene. They all jumped to their feet at his appearance. There was first a glance of confusion and embarrassment exchanged, as he saw; and then everyone rose in their wonder.

‘Mr. Courtenay! What a great, what a very unexpected——,’ said Mrs. Anderson. She had meant to say pleasure; but even she was so much startled and confounded that she could not carry her intention out.

‘Is it Uncle Courtenay?’ said Kate, rising, too. She was not alarmed—on the contrary, she looked half glad, as if the sight of him was rather a relief than otherwise. ‘Is it you, Uncle Courtenay? Have you come to see us? I am very glad. But I wonder you did not write.’

‘Thanks for your welcome, Kate. Thanks, Mrs. Anderson. Don’t let me disturb you. I made up my mind quite suddenly. I had not thought of it a week ago. Ah! some more acquaintances whom I did not expect to see.’

Mr. Courtenay was very gracious—he shook hands all round. The Berties shrank, no one could have quite told how—they looked at each other, exchanging a glance full of dismay and mutual consultation. Mr. Courtenay’s faculties were all on the alert; but he had been thinking only of his niece, and the young men puzzled him. They were not near Kate, they were not ‘paying her attention;’ but, then, what were they doing here? He was not so imaginative nor so quick in his perceptions as to be able to shift from the difficulty he had mastered to this new one. What he had expected was a foreign adventurer making love to his niece; and instead of that here were two young Englishmen, not even looking at his niece. He was posed; but ever suspicious. For the moment they had baffled him; but he would find it out, whatever they meant, whatever they might be concealing from him; and with that view he accepted the great arm-chair blandly, and sat down to make his observations with the most smiling and ingratiating face.

‘We are taking care of Kate—she is a kind of invalid, as you will see,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘It is not bad, I am glad to say, but she has a cold, and I have kept her indoors, and even condemned her to the fireside corner, which she thinks very hard.’

‘It looks very comfortable,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘So you have a cold, Kate? I hear you have been enjoying yourself very much, making troops of friends. But pray don’t let me disturb anyone. Don’t let me break up the party——’

‘It is time for us to keep our engagement,’ said Bertie Hardwick, who had taken out his watch. ‘It is a bore to have to go, just as there is a chance of hearing news of home; but I hope we shall see Mr. Courtenay again. We must go now. It is actually nine o’clock.’

‘Yes. I did not think it was nearly so late,’ said his cousin, echoing him. And they hurried away, leaving Mr. Courtenay more puzzled than ever. He had put them to flight, it was evident—but why? For personally he had no dread of them, nor objection to them, and they had not been taking any notice of Kate.

‘I have disturbed your evening, I fear,’ he said to Mrs. Anderson. She was annoyed and uncomfortable, though he could not tell the reason why.

‘Oh! no, not the least. These boys have been in Florence for some little time, and they often come in to enliven us a little in the evenings. But they have a great many engagements. They can never stay very long,’ she said, faltering and stammering, as if she did not quite know what she was saying. But for this Kate would have broken out into aroused remonstrance. Can never stay very long! Why, they stayed generally till midnight, or near it. These words were on Kate’s lips, but she held them back, partly for her aunt’s sake, partly—she could not tell why. Ombra, overcast in a moment from all her brightness, sat behind, drawing her chair back, and began to arrange and put away the silk she had been winding. It shone in the lamplight, vivid and warm in its rich colour. What a curious little picture this made altogether! Kate, startled and curious, in her seat by the fire; Mrs. Anderson, watchful, not knowing what was going to happen, keeping all her wits about her, occupied the central place; and Ombra sat half hidden behind Mr. Courtenay’s chair, a shadowy figure, with the lamplight just catching her white hands, and the long crimson thread of the silk. In a moment everything had changed. It might have been Shanklin again, from the aspect of the party. A little chill seemed to seize them all, though the room was so light and warm. Why was it? Was it a mere reminiscence of his former visit which had brought such change to their lives? He was uncomfortable, and even embarrassed, himself, though he could not have told why.

‘So Kate has a cold!’ he repeated. ‘From what I heard, I supposed you were living a very gay life, with troops of friends. I did not expect to find such a charming domestic party. But you are quite at home here, I suppose, and know the customs of the place—all about it? How sorry I am that your young friends should have gone away because of me!’

‘Oh! pray don’t think of it. It was not because of you. They had an engagement,’ said Mrs. Anderson. Yes, I have lived in Florence before; but that was in very different days, when we were not left such domestic quiet in the evenings,’ she added, elevating her head a little, yet sighing. She did not choose Mr. Courtenay, at least, to think that it was only her position as Kate’s chaperon which gave her importance here. And it was quite true that the Consul’s house had been a lively one in its day. Two young wandering Englishmen would not have represented society then; but perhaps all the habituÉs of the house were not exactly on a level with the Berties. ‘I have kept quiet, not without some trouble,’ she continued, ‘as you wished it so much for Kate.’

‘That was very kind of you,’ he said; ‘but see, now, what odd reports get about. I heard that Kate had plunged into all sorts of gaiety—and was surrounded by Italians—and I don’t know what besides.’

‘And you came to take care of her?’ said Ombra, quietly, at his elbow.

Mr. Courtenay started. He did not expect an assault on that side also.

‘I came to see you all, my dear young lady,’ he said; ‘and I congratulate you on your changed looks, Miss Ombra. Italy has made you look twice as strong and bright as you were in Shanklin. I don’t know if it has done as much for Kate.’

‘Kate has a cold,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘but otherwise she is in very good looks. As for Ombra, this might almost be called her native air.’

This civil fencing went on for about half an hour. There was attack and defence, but both stealthy, vague, and general; for the assailant did not quite know what he had to find fault with, and the defenders were unaware what would be the point of assault. Kate, who felt herself the subject of contention, and who did not feel brave enough or happy enough to take up her rÔle as she had done at Shanklin, kept in her corner, and said very little. She coughed more than was at all necessary, to keep up her part of invalid; but she did not throw her shield over her aunt as she had once done. With a certain mischievous satisfaction she left them to fight it out: they did not deserve Mr. Courtenay’s wrath, but yet they deserved something. For that one night Kate, who was somewhat sick and sore, felt in no mood to interfere. She could not even keep back one little arrow of her own, when her uncle had withdrawn, promising an early visit on the morrow.

‘As you think I am such an invalid, auntie,’ she said, with playfulness, which was somewhat forced, when the door closed upon that untoward visitor, ‘I think I had better go to bed.’

‘Perhaps it will be best,’ said Mrs. Anderson, offended. And Kate rose, feeling angry and wicked, and ready to wound, she could not tell why.

‘It is intolerable that that old man should come here with his suspicious looks—as if we meant to take advantage of him or harm her,’ cried Ombra, in indignation.

‘If it is me whom you call her, Ombra—’

‘Oh! don’t be ridiculous!’ cried Ombra, impatiently. ‘I am sure poor mamma has not deserved to be treated like a governess or a servant, and watched and suspected, on account of you.’

By this time, however, Mrs. Anderson had recovered herself.

‘Hush,’ she said, ‘Ombra; hush, Kate—don’t say things you will be sorry for. Mr. Courtenay has nothing to be suspicious about, that I know of, and it is only manner, I dare say. It is a pity that he should have that manner; but it is worse for him than it is for me.’

Now Kate did not love her Uncle Courtenay, but for once in her life she was moved to defend him. And she did love her aunt; but she was wounded and sore, and felt herself neglected, and yet had no legitimate ground for complaint. It was a relief to her to have this feasible reason for saying something disagreeable. The colour heightened in her face.

‘My Uncle Courtenay has always been good to me,’ she said, ‘and if anxiety about me has brought him here, I ought to be grateful to him at least. He does not mean to be rude to anyone, I am sure; and if I am the first person he thinks of, you need not grudge it, Ombra. There is certainly no one else in the world so foolish as to do that.’

The tears were in Kate’s eyes; she went away hastily, that they might not fall. She had never known until this moment, because she had never permitted herself to think, how hurt and sore she was. She hurried to her own room, and closed her door, and cried till her head ached. And then the dreadful thought came—how ungrateful she had been!—how wicked, how selfish! which was worse than all.

The two ladies were so taken by surprise that they stood looking after her with a certain consternation. Ombra was the first to recover herself, and she was very angry, very vehement, against her cousin.

‘Because she is rich, she thinks she should always be our tyrant!’ she cried.

‘Oh! hush, Ombra, hush!—you don’t think what you are saying,’ said her mother.

‘You see now, at least, what a mistake it would have been to take her into our confidence, mamma. It would have been fatal. I am so thankful I stood out. If she had us in her power now what should we have done?’ Ombra added, more calmly, after the first irritation was over.

But Mrs. Anderson shook her head.

‘It is never wise to deceive anyone; harm always comes of it,’ she said, sadly.

‘To deceive! Is it deceiving to keep one’s own secrets?’

‘Harm always comes of it,’ answered Mrs. Anderson, emphatically.

And after all was still in the house, and everybody asleep, she stole through the dark passage in her dressing-room, and opened Kate’s door softly, and went in and kissed the girl in her bed. Kate was not asleep, and the tears were wet on her cheeks. She caught the dark figure in her arms.

‘Oh! forgive me. I am so ashamed of myself!’ she cried.

Mrs. Anderson kissed her again, and stole away without a word. ‘Forgive her! It is she who must forgive me. Poor child! poor child!’ she said, in her heart.