‘It was you who knew them, Mr. Eldridge,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Tell me about them—you can’t think how interested I am. She thinks Lady Granton neglected her duty, and she means to behave very differently when she is in the same position. She is delicious! Tell me who she is.’

‘My cousin knows better than I do,’ said Bertie Eldridge, drawing back a step. ‘She is an old friend and neighbour of his.’

‘If your cousin were my son, I should be frightened of so very dangerous a neighbour,’ said Lady Caryisfort. It was one of her ways to distinguish as her possible sons men a few years younger than herself.

‘Even to think her dangerous would be a presumption in me,’ said Bertie Hardwick. ‘She is the great lady at home. Perhaps, though you laugh, you may some day see whether she can keep the resolution to behave differently. She is Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, Lady Caryisfort. You must know her well enough by name.’

‘What!—the Vice-Consul’s niece! I must go and tell Lady Granton,’ said an attachÉ, who was among Lady Caryisfort’s attendants.

She followed him with her eyes as he went away, with an amused look.

‘Now my little friend will have plenty of partners,’ she said. ‘Oh! you men, who have not even courage enough to ask a pretty girl to dance until you have a certificate of her position. But I don’t mean you two. You had the certificate, I suppose, a long time ago?’

‘Yes. She has grown very pretty,’ said Bertie Eldridge, in a patronising tone.

‘How kind of you to think so!—how good of you to make her dance! as the French say. Mr. Hardwick, I suppose she is your father’s squire? Are you as condescending as your cousin? Give me your arm, please, and introduce me to the party. I am sure they must be fun. I have heard of Mrs. Vice-Consul——’

‘I don’t think they are particularly funny,’ said Bertie Hardwick, with a tone which the lady’s ear was far too quick to lose.

‘Ah!’ she said to herself, ‘a victim!’ and was on the alert at once.

‘It is the younger one who is Miss Courtenay, I suppose?’ she said. ‘The other is—her cousin. I see now. And I assure you, Mr. Hardwick, though she is not (I suppose?) an heiress, she is very pretty too.’

Bertie assented with a peculiar smile. It was a great distinction to Bertie Hardwick to be seen with Lady Caryisfort on his arm, and a very great compliment to Mrs. Anderson that so great a personage should leave her seat in order to make her acquaintance. Yet there were drawbacks to this advantage; for Lady Caryisfort had a way of making her own theories on most things that fell under her observation; and she did so at once in respect to the group so suddenly brought under her observation. She paid Mrs. Anderson a great many compliments upon her two girls.

‘I hear from Mr. Hardwick that I ought to know your niece “at home,” as the schoolboys say,’ she said. ‘Caryisfort is not more than a dozen miles from Langton-Courtenay. I certainly did not expect to meet my young neighbour here.’

‘Her uncle wishes her to travel; she is herself fond of moving about,’ murmured Mrs. Anderson.

‘Oh! to be sure—it is quite natural,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘but I should have thought Lady Granton would have known who her guest was—and—and all of us. There are so many English people always here, and it is so hard to tell who is who——’

‘If you will pardon me,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was not without a sense of her own dignity, ‘it is just because of the difficulty in telling who is who that I have brought Kate here. Her guardian does not wish her to be introduced in England till she is of age; and as I am anxious not to attract any special attention, such as her position might warrant——’

‘Is her guardian romantic?’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Does he want her to be loved for herself alone, and that sort of thing? For otherwise, do you know, I should think it was dangerous. A pretty girl is never quite safe——’

‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Anderson, gravely, ‘there are some risks, which one is obliged to run—with every girl.’

And she glanced at Bertie Hardwick, who was standing by; and either Bertie blushed, being an ingenuous young man, or Lady Caryisfort fancied he did; for she was very busy making her little version of this story, and every circumstance, as far as she had gone, fitted in.

‘But an heiress is so much more dangerous than any other girl. Suppose she should fancy some one beneath—some one not quite sufficiently—some one, in short, whom her guardians would not approve of? Do you know, I think it is a dreadful responsibility for you.’

Mrs. Anderson smiled; but she gave her adviser a sudden look of fright and partial irritation.

‘I must take my chance with others,’ she said. ‘We can only hope nothing will happen.’

‘Nothing happen! When it is girls and boys that are in question something always happens!’ cried Lady Caryisfort, elevating her eyebrows. ‘But here come your two girls, looking very happy. Will you introduce them to me, please? I hope you will not be affronted with me for an inquisitive old woman,’ she went on, with her most gracious smile; ‘but I have been watching you for ever so long.’

She was watching them now, closely, scientifically, under her drooped eyelids. Bertie had brightened so at their approach, there could be no mistaking that symptom. And the pale girl, the dark girl, the quiet one, who, now that she had time to examine her, proved almost more interesting than the beauty—had changed, too, lighting up like a sky at sunset. The red line had gone from under Ombra’s eyes; there was a rose-tint on her cheek which came and went; her eyes were dewy, like the first stars that come out at evening. A pretty, pensive creature, but bright for the moment, as was the other one—the one who was all made of colour and light.

‘This is my niece, Lady Caryisfort,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with an effort; and she added, in a lower tone, ‘This is Ombra, my own child.’

‘Do you call her Ombra? What a pretty name! and how appropriate! Then of course the other one is sunshine,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘I hope I shall see something of them while I stay here; and, young ladies, I hope, as I said, that you do not consider me a very impertinent old woman because I have been watching you.’

Kate laughed out the clearest, youthful laugh.

‘Are you an old woman?’ she said. ‘I should not have guessed it.’

Lady Caryisfort turned towards Kate with growing favour. How subtle is the effect of wealth and greatness (she thought). Kate spoke out frankly, in the confidence of her own natural elevation, which placed her on a level with all these princesses and great ladies; while Ombra, though she was older and more experienced, hung shyly back, and said nothing at all. Lady Caryisfort, with her quick eyes, perceived, or thought she perceived, this difference in a moment, and, half-unconsciously, inclined towards the one who was of her own caste.

‘Old enough to be your grandmother,’ she said; ‘and I am your neighbour, besides, at home, so I hope we shall be great friends. I suppose you have heard of the Caryisforts? No! Why, you must be a little changeling not to know the people in your own county. You know Bertie Hardwick, though?’

‘Oh! yes—I have known him all my life,’ said Kate, calmly, looking up at her.

How different the two girls were! The bright one (Lady Caryisfort remarked to herself) as calm as a Summer day; the shadowy one all changing and fluttering, with various emotions. It was easy to see what that meant.

This conversation, however, had to be broken up abruptly, for already the stream of partners which Lady Caryisfort had prophesied was pouring upon the girls. Lady Barker, indeed, had come to the rescue as soon as the appearance of the two Berties emancipated the cousins. When they did not absolutely require her help, she proffered it, according to Lady Caryisfort’s rule; and even Lady Granton herself showed signs of interest. An heiress is not an everyday occurrence even in the highest circles; and this was not a common heiress, a mere representative of money, but the last of an old family, the possessor of fair and solid English acres, old, noble houses, a name any man might be proud of uniting to his own; and a beauty besides. This was filling the cup too high, most people felt—there was no justice in it. Fancy, rich, well-born, and beautiful too! She had no right to have so much.

‘I cannot think why you did not tell me,’ said Lady Barker, coming to Mrs. Anderson’s side. She felt she had made rather a mistake with her Mrs. Vice-Consul; and the recollection of her jokes about Kate’s possible inheritance made her redden when she thought of them. She had put herself in the wrong so clearly that even her stupid attachÉ had found it out.

‘I had no desire to tell anybody—I am sorry it is known now,’ said Mrs. Anderson.

Long before this a comfortable place had been found for Kate’s aunt. Her heiress had raised her out of all that necessity of watching and struggling for a point of vantage which nobodies are compelled to submit to when they venture among the great. But it is doubtful whether Mrs. Anderson was quite happy in her sudden elevation. Her feelings were of a very mixed and uncertain character. So far as Lady Barker was concerned, she could not but feel a certain pride—she liked to show the old friend, who was patronising and kind, that she needed no exercise of condescension on her part; and she was pleased, as that man no doubt was pleased, who, having taken the lower room at the feast, was bidden, ‘Friend, go up higher.’ That sensation cannot be otherwise than pleasant—the little commotion, the flutter of apologies and regrets with which she was discovered ‘to have been standing all this time;’ the slight discomfiture of the people round, who had taken no notice, on perceiving after all that she was somebody, and not nobody, as they thought. All this had been pleasant. But it was not so pleasant to feel in so marked and distinct a manner that it was all on Kate’s account. Kate was very well; her aunt was fond of her, and good to her, and would have been so independent of her heiress-ship. But to find that her own value, such as it was—and most of us put a certain value on ourselves—and the beauty and sweetness of her child, who, to her eyes, was much more lovely than Kate, should all go for nothing, and that an elevation which was half contemptuous, should be accorded to them solely on Kate’s account, was humiliating to the good woman. She took advantage of it, and was even pleased with the practical effect; but it wounded her pride, notwithstanding, in the tenderest point. Kate, whom she had scolded and petted into decorum, whom she had made with her own hands, so to speak, into the semblance she now bore, whose faults and deficiencies she was so sensible of! Poor Mrs. Anderson, the position of dignity ‘among all the best people’ was pleasant to her; but the thought that she had gained it only as Kate’s aunt put prickles in the velvet. And Ombra, her child, her first of things, was nothing but Kate’s cousin. ‘But that will soon be set to rights,’ the mother said to herself, with a smile; and then she added aloud—

‘I am very sorry it is known now. We never intended it. A girl in Kate’s position has enough to go through at home, without being exposed to—to fortune-hunters and annoyances here. Had I known these boys were in Florence, I should not have come. I am very much annoyed. Nothing could be further from her guardian’s wishes—or my own.’

‘Oh, well, you can’t help it!’ said Lady Barker. ‘It was not your fault. But you can’t hide an heiress. You might as well try to put brown holland covers on a lighthouse. By-the-bye, young Eldridge is very well connected, and very nice—don’t you think?’

‘He is Sir Herbert Eldridge’s son,’ said Mrs. Anderson, stiffly.

‘Yes. Not at all bad looking, and all that. Nobody could consider him, you know, in the light of a fortune-hunter. But if you take my advice you will keep all those young Italians at arm’s length. Some of them are very captivating in their way; and then it sounds romantic, and girls are pleased. There is that young Buoncompagni, that Miss Courtenay is dancing with now. He is one of the handsomest young fellows in Florence, and he has not a sou. Of course he is looking out for some one with money. Positively you must take great care. Ah! I see it is Mr. Eldridge your daughter is dancing with. You are old friends, I suppose?’

‘Very old friends,’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she was not sorry when her questioner was called away. Perhaps, for the moment, she was not much impressed by Kate’s danger in respect to the young Count Buoncompagni. Her eyes were fixed upon Ombra, as was natural. In the abstract, a seat even upon velvet cushions (with prickles in them), against an emblazoned wall, for hours together, with no one whom you know to speak to, and only such crumbs of entertainment as are thrown to you when some one says, ‘A pretty scene, is it not? What a pretty dress! Don’t you think Lady Caryisfort is charming? And dear Lady Granton, how well she is looking!’ Even with such brilliant interludes of conversation as the above, the long vigil of a chaperon is not exhilarating. But when Mrs. Anderson’s eye followed Ombra she was happy; she was content to sit against the wall, and gaze, and would not allow to herself that she was sleepy. ‘Poor dear Kate, too!’ she said to herself, with a compunction, ‘she is as happy as possible.’ Thus nature gave a compensation to Ombra for being only Miss Courtenay’s cousin—a compensation which, for the moment, in the warmth of personal happiness, she did not need.