Next morning, when Mr. Courtenay took his way from the hotel to the Lung-Arno, his eye was caught by the appearance of a young man who was walking exactly in front of him with a great bouquet of violets in his hand. He was young, handsome, and well-dressed, and the continual salutes he received as he moved along testified that he was well known in Florence. The old man’s eye (knowing nothing about him) dwelt on him with a certain pleasure. That he was a genial, friendly young soul there could be no doubt; so pleasant were his salutations to great and small, made with hat and hand and voice, as continually as a prince’s salutations to his subjects. Probably he was a young prince, or duke, or marchesino; at all events, a noble of the old blue blood, which, in Italy, is at once so uncontaminated and so popular.

Mr. Courtenay had no premonition of any special interest in the stranger, and consequently he looked with pleasure on this impersonation of youth and good looks and good manners. Yes, no doubt he was a nobleman of the faithful Italian blood, one of those families which had kept in the good graces of the country, by what these benighted nations considered patriotism. A fine young fellow—perhaps with something like a career before him, now that Italy was holding up her head again among the nations—altogether an excellent specimen of a patrician; one of those well-born and well-conditioned beings whom every man with good blood in his own veins feels more or less proud of. Such were the thoughts of the old English man of the world, as he took his way in the Winter sunshine to keep his appointment with his niece.

It was a bright cold morning—a white rim of snow on the Apennines gave a brilliant edge to the landscape, and on the smaller heights on the other side of Arno there was green enough to keep Winter in subjection. The sunshine was as warm as Summer; very different from the dreary dirty weather which Mr. Courtenay had left in Bond Street and Piccadilly, though Piccadilly sometimes is as bright as the Lung-Arno. Though he was as old as Methuselah in Kate’s eyes, this ogre of a guardian was not so old in his own. And he had once been young, and when young had been in Florence; and he had a flower in his button-hole and no overcoat, which made him happy. And though he was perplexed, he could not but feel that the worst that he been threatened with had not come true, and that perhaps the story was false altogether, and he was to escape without trouble. All this made Mr. Courtenay walk very lightly along the sunny pavement, pleased with himself, and disposed to be pleased with other people; and the same amiable feelings directed his eyes towards the young Italian, and gave him a friendly feeling to the stranger. A fine young fellow; straight and swift he marched along, and would have distanced the old man, but for those continual greetings, which retarded him. Mr. Courtenay was just a little surprised when he saw the youth whom he had been admiring enter the doorway to which he was himself bound; and his surprise may be imagined when, as he climbed the stairs towards the second floor where his niece lived, he overheard a lively conversation at Mrs. Anderson’s very door.

‘Amica mia, I hope your beautiful young lady is better,’ said the young man. ‘Contrive to tell her, my Francesca, how miserable I have been these evil nights, while she has been shut up by this hard-hearted lady-aunt. You will say, cara mia, that it is the Lady Caryisfort who sends the flowers, and that I am desolated—desolated!—and all that comes into your good heart to say. For you understand—I am sure you understand.’

‘Oh, yes, I understand, Signor Cont’ Antonio,’ said Francesca. ‘Trust to me, I know what to say. She is not very happy herself, the dear little Signorina. It is dreary for her seeing the other young lady with her lovers; but, perhaps, my beautiful young gentleman, it is not bad for you. When one sees another loved, one wishes to be loved one’s self; but it is hard for Mees Katta. She will be glad to have the Signor Conte’s flowers and his message.’

‘But take care, Francesca mia, you must say they are from my Lady Caryisfort,’ said Count Antonio, ‘and lay me at the feet of my little lady. I hunger—I thirst—I die to see her again! Will she not see my Lady Caryisfort to-day? Is she too ill to go out to-night? The new prima donna has come, and has made a furore. Tell her so, cara mia. Francesca make her to come out, that I may see her. You will stand my friend—you were always my friend.’

‘The Signor Conte forgets what I have told him; that I am as a connection of the family. I will do my very best for him. Hist! hush! oh, miserecordia! Ecco il vecchio!’ cried Francesca, under her breath.

Mr. Courtenay had heard it all, but as his Italian was imperfect he had not altogether made it out, and he missed this warning about il vecchio altogether. The young man turned and faced him as he reached the landing. He was a handsome young fellow, with dark eyes, which were eloquent enough to get to any girl’s heart. Mr. Courtenay felt towards him as an old lady in the best society might feel, did she see her son in the fatal clutches of a penniless beauty. The fact that Kate was an heiress made, as it were, a man of her, and transferred all the female epithets of ‘wilful’ and ‘designing’ to the other side. Antonio, with the politeness of his country, took off his hat and stood aside to let the older man pass. ‘Thinks he can come over me too, with his confounded politeness,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself—indeed, he used a stronger word than confounded, which it would be unladylike to repeat. He made no response to the young Italian’s politeness, but pushed on, hat on head, after the vigorous manner of the Britons. ‘Who are these for?’ he asked, gruffly, indicating with his stick the bunch of violets which made the air sweet.

‘For ze young ladies, zare,’ said Francesca, demurely, as she ushered him out of the dark passage into the bright drawing-room.

Mr. Courtenay went in with suppressed fury. Kate was alone in the room waiting for him, and what with the agitation of the night, and the little flutter caused by his arrival, she was pale, and seemed to receive him with some nervousness. He noticed, too, that Francesca carried away the bouquet, though he felt convinced it was not intended for Ombra. She was in the pay of that young adventurer!—that Italian rogue and schemer!—that fortune-hunting young blackguard! These were the intemperate epithets which Mr. Courtenay applied to his handsome young Italian, as soon as he had found him out!

‘Well, Kate,’ he said, sitting down beside her, ‘I am sorry you are not well. It must be dull for you to be kept indoors, after you have had so much going about, and have been enjoying yourself so much.’

‘Did you not wish me to enjoy myself?’ said Kate, whom her aunt’s kiss the night before had once more enlisted vehemently on the other side.

‘Oh! surely,’ said her guardian. ‘What do persons like myself exist for, but to help young people to enjoy themselves. It is the only object of our lives!’

‘You mean to be satirical, I see,’ said Kate, with a sigh, ‘but I don’t understand it. I wish you would speak plainly out. You taunted me last night with having made many friends, and having enjoyed myself—was it wrong? If you will tell me how few friends you wish me to have, or exactly how little enjoyment you think proper for me, I will endeavour to carry out your wishes—as long as I am obliged.’

This was said in an undertone, with a grind and setting of Kate’s white teeth which, though very slight, spoke volumes. She had quite taken up again the colours which she had almost let fall last night. Mr. Courtenay was prepared for remonstrance, but not for such a vigorous onslaught.

‘You are civil, my dear, he said, ‘and sweet and submissive, and, indeed, everything I could have expected from your character and early habits; but I thought Mrs. Anderson had brought you under. I thought you knew better by this time than to attempt to bully me.’

‘I don’t want to bully you,’ cried Kate, with burning cheeks; ‘but why do you come like this, with your suspicious looks, as if you came prepared to catch us in something?—whereas, all the world may know all about us—whom we know, and what we do.’

‘This nonsense is your aunt’s, I suppose, and I don’t blame you for it,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘Let us change the subject. You are responsible to me, as it happens, but I am not responsible to you. Don’t make yourself disagreeable, Kate. Tragedy is not your line, though it is your cousin’s. By the way, that girl is looking a great deal better than she did; she is a different creature. She has grown quite handsome. Is it because Florence is her native air, as her mother said?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Kate. Though she had taken up her aunt’s colours again vehemently, she did not feel so warmly towards Ombra. A certain irritation had been going on in her mind for some time. It had burst forth on the previous night, and Ombra had offered no kiss, said no word of reconciliation. So she was not disposed to enter upon any admiring discussion of her cousin. She would have resented anything that had been said unkindly, but it was no longer in her mind to plunge into applause of Ombra. A change had thus come over them both.

Mr. Courtenay looked at her very keenly—he saw there was something wrong, but he could not tell what it was—Some girlish quarrel, no doubt, he said to himself. Girls were always quarrelling—about their lovers, or about their dresses, or something. Therefore he went over this ground lightly, and returned to his original attack.

‘You like Florence?’ he said. ‘Tell me what you have been doing, and whom you have met. There must be a great many English here, I suppose?’

However, he had roused Kate’s suspicions, and she was not inclined to answer.

‘We have been doing what everybody else does,’ she said—‘going to see the pictures and all the sights; and we have met Lady Caryisfort. That is about all, I think. She has rather taken a fancy to me, because she belongs to our own country. She takes me to drive sometimes; and I have seen a great deal of her—especially of late.’

‘Why especially of late?’

‘Oh! I don’t know—that is, my aunt and Ombra found some old friends who were not fine enough, they said, to please you, so they left me behind; and I did not like it, I suppose being silly; so I have gone to Lady Caryisfort’s more than usual since.’

‘Oh-h!’ said Mr. Courtenay, feeling that enlightenment was near. ‘It was very honourable of your aunt, I am sure. And this Lady Caryisfort?—is she a match-maker, Kate?’

‘A match-maker! I don’t understand what you mean, uncle.’

‘You have met a certain young Italian, a Count Buoncompagni, whom I have heard of, there?’

Kate reddened, in spite of herself—being on the eve of getting into trouble about him, she began to feel a melting of her heart to Antonio.

‘Do you know anything about Count Buoncompagni?’ she asked, with elaborate calm. This, then, was what her uncle meant—this was what he had come from England about. Was it really so important as that?

‘I have heard of him,’ said Mr. Courtenay, drily. ‘Indeed, five minutes ago, I followed him up the stairs, without knowing who he was, and heard him giving a string of messages and a bunch of flowers to that wretched old woman.’

‘Was it me he was asking for?’ said Kate, quite touched. ‘How nice and how kind he is! He has asked for me every day since I have had this cold. The Italians are so nice, Uncle Courtenay. They are so sympathetic, and take such an interest in you.’

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ he said, grimly. ‘And how long has this young Buoncompagni taken an interest in you? It may be very nice, as you say, but I doubt if I, as your guardian, can take so much pleasure in it as you do. I want to hear all about it, and where and how often you have met.’

Kate wavered a moment—whether to be angry and refuse to tell, or to keep her temper and disarm her opponent. She chose the latter alternative, chiefly because she was beginning to be amused, and felt that some ‘fun’ might be got out of the matter. And it was so long now (about two weeks and a half) since she had had any ‘fun.’ She did so want a little amusement. Whereupon she answered very demurely, and with much conscious skill,

‘I met him first at the Embassy—at Lady Granton’s ball.

‘At Lady Granton’s ball?’

‘Yes. There were none but the very best people there—the crÊme de la crÊme, as auntie says. Lady Granton’s sister introduced him to me. He is a very good dancer—just the sort of man that is nice to waltz with; and very pleasant to talk to, uncle.’

‘Oh! he is very pleasant to talk to, is he?’ said Uncle Courtenay, still more grimly.

‘Very much so indeed. He talks excellent French, and beautiful Italian. It does one all the good in the world talking to such a man. It is better than a dozen lessons. And then he is so kind, and never laughs at one’s mistakes. And he has such a lovely old palace, and is so well known in Florence. He may not be very rich, perhaps——’

‘Rich!—a beggarly adventurer!—a confounded fortune-hunter!—an Italian rogue and reprobate! How this precious aunt of yours could have shut her eyes to such a piece of folly; or your Lady Caryisfort, forsooth——’

‘Why forsooth, uncle? Do you mean that she is not Lady Caryisfort, or that she is unworthy of the name? She is very clever and very agreeable. But I was going to say that though Count Buoncompagni is not rich, he gave us the most beautiful little luncheon the day we went to see his pictures. Lady Caryisfort said it was perfection. And talking of that—if he brought some flowers, as you say, I should like to have them. May I go and speak to Francesca about them?—or perhaps you would rather ring the bell?’