‘It is very interesting,’ said Kate; ‘but it is about this Count’s grandfather you are talking, Francesca. Could not we come a little lower down?’

‘Signorina mia, when one is a Buoncompagni, one’s grandfather is very close and near,’ said Francesca. ‘There are some families in which a grandfather is a distant ancestor, or perhaps the beginning of the race. But with the Buoncompagni you do not adopt that way of reckoning. Count Antonio’s mother is living—she is a thing of to-day, like the rest of us. Then I ask, Signorina Katta, whom can one speak of? That is the way in old families. Doubtless in the Signorina’s own house——’

‘Oh, my grandpapa is a thousand years off!’ said Kate. ‘I don’t believe in him—he must have been so dreadfully old. Even papa was old. He married when he was about fifty, I suppose, and I never saw him. My poor little mother was different, but I never saw her either. Don’t speak of my family, please. I suppose they were very nice, but I don’t know much about them.’

‘Mademoiselle would not like to be without them,’ said Francesca, nodding her little grey head. ‘Mademoiselle would feel very strange if all at once it were said to her, “You never had a grandpapa. You are a child of the people, my young lady. You came from no one knows where.” Ah, you prefer the old ones to that! Signorina Katta. If you were to go into the Buoncompagni Palazzo, and see all the beautiful pictures of the old Cavalieri in their armour, and the ladies with pearls and rubies upon their beautiful robes! The Contino would be rich if he could make up his mind to sell those magnificent pictures; but the Signorina will perceive in a moment that to sell one’s ancestors—that is a thing one could never do.’

‘No, I should not like to sell them,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. ‘But do you mean that? Are the Buoncompagni poor?’

‘Signorina mia,’ said Francesca, with dignity, ‘when were they rich—our grand nobili Italiani! Not since the days when Firenze was a queen in the world, and did what she would. That was ended a long, long time ago. And what, then, was it the duty of the great Signori to do? They had to keep their old palaces, and all the beautiful things the house had got when it was rich, for the good of la patria, when she should wake up again. They had to keep all the old names, and the recollections. Signorina Katta, a common race could not have done this. We poor ones in the streets, we have done what we could; we have kept up our courage and our gaiety of heart for our country. The Buoncompagni, and such like, kept up the race. They would rather live in a corner of the old Palazzo than part with it to a stranger. They would not sell the pictures, and the belle cose, except now and then one small piece, to keep the family alive. And now, look you, Signorina mia, la patria has woke up at last, and ecco! Her old names, and her old palaces, and the belle cose are here waiting for her. Ah! we have had a great deal to suffer, but we are not extinguished. Certainly they are poor, but what then? They exist; and every true Italian will bless them for that.’

This old woman, with her ruddy-brown, dried-up little face, and her scanty hair, tied into a little knot at the top of it—curious little figure, whom Kate had found it hard work to keep from laughing at when she arrived first at Shanklin—was a politician, a visionary, a patriot-enthusiast. Kate now, at eighteen, looked at Francesca with respect, which was just modified by an inclination, far down at the bottom of her heart, to laugh. But for this she took herself very sharply to task. Kate had not quite got over the natural English inclination to be contemptuous of all ‘foreigners’ who took a different view of their duty from that natural to the British mind. If the Buoncompagni had tried to make money, and improve their position; if they had emigrated, and fought their way in the world; if they had done some active work, instead of vegetating and preserving their old palaces, she asked herself? Which was no doubt an odd idea to have got into the Tory brain of the young representative of an old family, bound to hate revolutionaries; but Kate was a revolutionary by nature, and her natural Toryism was largely tinctured by the natural Radicalism of her age, and that propensity to contradict, and form theories of her own, which were part of her character. It was part of her character still, though it had been smoothed down, and brought under subjection, by her aunt’s continual indulgence. She was not so much impressed as she felt she ought to have been by Francesca’s speech.

‘I am glad they exist,’ she said. ‘Of course we must all really have had the same number of grandfathers and grandmothers, but still an old family is pleasant. The only thing is, Francesca—don’t be angry—suppose they had done something, while the patria, you know, has been asleep; suppose they had tried to get on, to recover their money, to do something more than exist! It is only a suggestion—probably I am quite wrong, but——

‘The Signorina perhaps will condescend to inform me,’ said Francesca, with lofty satire, ‘what, in her opinion, it would have been best for our nobles to do?’

‘Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I only meant—I don’t know anything about it!’ cried Kate.

‘If the Signorina will permit me to say so, that is very visible,’ said Francesca; and then, for full five minutes, she plied her needle, and was silent. This, perhaps, was rather a hard punishment for Kate, who had left the visitors in the drawing-room to seek a more lively amusement in Francesca’s company, and who, after the excitement of the ball, was anxious for some other excitement. She revenged herself by pulling the old woman’s work about, and asking what was this, and this. Francesca was making a dress for her mistress, and Mrs. Anderson, though she did not despise the fashion, was sufficiently sensible to take her own way, and keep certain peculiarities of her own.

‘Why do you make it like this?’ said Kate. ‘Auntie is not a hundred. She might as well have her dress made like other people. She is very nice-looking, I think, for her age. Don’t you think so? She must have been pretty once, Francesca. Why, you ought to know—you knew her when she was young. Don’t you think she has been——?’

‘Signorina, be so good as to let my work alone,’ said Francesca. ‘What! do you think there is nothing but youth that is to be admired? I did not expect to find so little education in one of my Signorinas. Know, Mademoiselle Katta, that there are many persons who think Madame handsomer than either of the young ladies. There is an air of distinction and of intelligence. You, for instance, you have the beautÉ de diable—one admires you because you are so young; but how do you know that it will last? Your features are not remarkable, Signorina Katta. When those roses are gone, probably you will be but an ordinary-looking woman; but my Signora Anderson, she has features, she has the grand air, she has distinction——’

‘Oh! you spiteful old woman!’ cried Kate, half vexed, half laughing. ‘I never said I thought I was pretty. I know I am just like a doll, all red and white; but you need not tell me so, all the same.’

‘Mademoiselle is not like a doll,’ said Francesca. ‘Sometimes, when she has a better inspiration, Mademoiselle has something more than red and white. I did not affirm that it would not last. I said how do you know? But my Signora has lasted. She is noble!—she is distinguished! And as for what she has been——’

‘That is exactly what I said,’ said Kate.

‘We do not last in Italy,’ said Francesca, pursuing the subject with the gravity of an abstract philosopher. ‘It is, perhaps, our beautiful climate. Your England, which has so much of mist and of rain, keeps the grass green, and it preserves beauty. The Contessa Buoncompagni has lost all her beauty. She was of the Strozzi family, and made her first communion on the same day as my little Angiolina, who is now blessed in heaven. Allow me to say it to you, Signorina mia, they were beautiful as two angels in their white veils. But the Contessina has grown old. She has lost her hair, which does not happen to the English Signore, and—other things. I am more old than she, and when I see it I grieve. She does not go out, except, of course, which goes without saying, to the Duomo. She is a good woman—a very good woman. If she cannot afford to give the best price for her salad, is it her fault? She is a great lady, as great as anybody in all Firenze—Countess Buoncompagni, born Strozzi. What would you have more? But, dear lady, it is no shame to her that she is not rich. Santissima Madonna, why should one hesitate to say it? It is not her fault.’

‘Of course it cannot be her fault; nobody would choose to be poor if they could help it,’ said Kate.

‘I cannot say, Signorina Katta—I have not any information on the subject. To be rich is not all. It might so happen—though I have no special information—that one would choose to be poor. I am poor myself, but I would not change places with many who are rich. I should esteem more,’ said Francesca, raising her head, ‘a young galantuomo who was noble and poor, and had never done anything against the patria, nor humbled himself before the Tedeschi, a hundred and a thousand times more than those who hold places and honours. But then I am a silly old woman, most likely the Signorina will say.’

‘Is Count Buoncompagni like that?’ asked Kate; but she did not look for an answer.

And just then the bell rang from the drawing-room, and Francesca put down her work and bustled away to open the door for the young Englishmen whose company Kate had abandoned. The girl took up Francesca’s work, and made half a dozen stitches; and then went to her own room, where Maryanne was also at work. Kate gave a little sketch of the dresses at the ball to the handmaiden, who listened with breathless interest.

‘I don’t think anyone could have looked nicer than you and Miss Ombra in your fresh tarlatane, Miss,’ said Maryanne.

‘Nobody took the least notice of us,’ said Kate. ‘We are not worth noticing among so many handsome, well-dressed people. We were but a couple of girls out of the nursery in our white. I think I will choose a colour that will make some show if I ever go to a ball again.’

‘Oh! Miss Kate, you will go to a hundred balls!’ cried Maryanne, with fervour.

Kate shrugged her shoulders with sham disdain; but she felt, with a certain gentle complacency, that it was true. A girl who has once been to a ball must go on. She cannot be shut up again in any nursery and school-room; she is emancipated for ever and ever; the glorious world is thrown open to her. The tarlatane which marked her bread-and-butter days would no doubt yield to more splendid garments; but she could not go back—she had made her entry into life.

Lady Caryisfort called next day—an event which filled Mrs. Anderson with satisfaction. No doubt Kate was the chief object of her visit; and as it was the first time that Kate’s aunt and cousin had practically felt the great advantage which her position gave her over them, there was, without doubt, some difficulty in the situation. But, fortunately, Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied; and Mrs. Anderson, though she was a high-spirited woman, and did not relish the idea of deriving consequence entirely from the little girl whom she had brought up, had yet that philosophy which more or less is the accompaniment of experience, and knew that it was much better to accept the inevitable graciously, than to fight against it. And if anything could have neutralised the wound to her pride, it would have been the ‘pretty manners’ of Lady Caryisfort, and the interest which she displayed in Ombra. Indeed, Ombra secured more of her attention than Kate did—a consoling circumstance. Lady Caryisfort showed every inclination to ‘take them up.’ It was a thing she was fond of doing; and she was so amiable and entertaining, and so rich, and opened up such perfectly good society to her protÉgÉes, that few people at the moment of being taken up realised the fact that they must inevitably be let down again by-and-by—a process not so pleasant.

At this moment nothing could be more delightful than their new friend. She called for them when she went out driving, and took them to Fiesole, to La Pioggia, to the Cascine—wherever fashion went. She lent them her carriage when she was indolent, as often happened, and did not care to go out. She asked them to her little parties when she had ‘the best people’—a compliment which Mrs. Anderson felt deeply, and which was very different from the invitation to the big ball at the Embassy, to which everybody was invited. In short, Lady Caryisfort launched the little party into the best society of English at Florence, such as it is. And the pretty English heiress became as well known as if she had gone through a season at home previous to this Italian season. Poor Uncle Courtenay! Had he seen Antonio Buoncompagni, who danced like an angel, leading his ward through the mazes of a cotillon, what would that excellent guardian’s feelings have been?