The place inhabited by the Thayers was a regular Italian villa.  It had not been at all in order that suited English notions of comfort, or American either, when they moved in; but they had painted and matted and furnished, and filled the rooms with pretty things, pictures and statues and vases and flowers; till it looked now quite beautiful and festive.  Its situation was perfect.  The house stood high, on the shore overlooking the sea, with a full view of Vesuvius, and it was surrounded with a paradise of orange-trees, fig-trees, pomegranates, olives, oaks and oleanders, with roses and a multitude of other flowers; in a wealth of sweetness and luxuriance of growth that northern climes know nothing of.  The reception the visitors met with was joyous.

“I am so glad you are come!” cried Christina, as she carried off Dolly through the hall to her particular room.  “That bad boy, Sandie, has not reported yet; but he will come; and then we will go everywhere.  Have you been everywhere already?”

“I have been nowhere.  I have staid with mother, and she wanted to be quiet.”

“Well, she can be quiet now with my mother; they can take care of each other.  And you have not been to Capri?”

“No.”

“Just think of it!  How delightful!  You have not seen the Grotta azzurra?”

“I have seen nothing.”

“Nor the grotto of the Sirens?  You have seen that? It was so near.”

“No, I have not.  I have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns and flowers in the dells around Sorrento.  We used to take mother in a donkey cart ­a calessino ­to the edge of the side of the dell, and then help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns.  It was very pleasant.”

“I wish Sandie would only come ­the tiresome fellow!  There’s no counting on him.  But he will come.  He said he would if he could, and he can of course.  I suppose you have not visited Paestum yet then?”

“I believe father went there.  We did not.”

“Nor we, yet.  I don’t care so much ­only I like to keep going ­but father is crazy to see the ruins.  You know the ruins are wonderful.  Do you care for ruins?”

“I believe I do,” said Dolly, smiling, “when the ruins are of something beautiful.  And those Greek temples ­oh, I should like to see them.”

“I would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in ruins; ruins are sad, don’t you think so?”

“I suppose they ought to be,” said Dolly, laughing now.  “But somehow, Christina, I believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were all new and perfect ­or even old and perfect.  It is a perverse taste, I suppose, but I do.”

“Why?  They are not so handsome in ruins.”

“They are lovelier.”

“Lovely! ­for old ruins!  I can understand papa’s enthusiasm; he’s a kind of antiquity worshipper; but you ­and ‘lovely!’”

“And interesting, Christina.  Ruins tell of so much; they are such grand books of history, and witnesses for things gone by.  But beautiful ­oh yes, beautiful beyond all others, if you talk of buildings.  What is St. Peter’s, compared to the Colosseum?”

Christina stared at her friend.  “What is St. Peter’s?  A most magnificent work of modern art, I should say; and you compare it to a tumbledown old bit of barbarism.  That’s too like Sandie.  Do you and your friend agree as harmoniously as Sandie and I?  We ought to exchange.”

“I have no ‘friend,’ as you express it,” said Dolly, pulling her wayward, curling locks into a little more order.  “Mr. St. Leger is nothing to me ­if you are speaking of him.”

“I am sure, if he told the truth, he would not say that of you,” said Christina, looking with secret admiration at the figure before her.  It was a rare kind of beauty, not of the stereotyped or formal sort; like one of the dainty old vases of alabaster, elegant in form and delicate and exquisite in chiselling and design, with a pure inner light showing through.  That was not the comparison in Christina’s mind, and indeed she made none; but women’s eyes are sometimes sharp to see feminine beauty; and she confessed that Dolly’s was uncommon, not merely in degree but in kind.  There was nothing conventional about it; there never had been; her curling hair took a wayward way of its own; her brown eyes had a look of thoughtfulness mingled with childlike innocence; they always had it more or less; now the wisdom was more sweet and the innocence more spiritual.  Her figure and her manner were all in harmony, wearing unconscious grace and a very simple, free dignity.

“We cannot go to Paestum at this season of the year, they say,” Christina began again, at a distance from her thoughts; “but one can go to the Punta di Campanella and Monte San Costanzo; and as soon as Sandie comes, we will.  We will wait a day for him first.”

Dolly was quite willing to wait for him; for, to tell the truth, one of her pleasures in the thought of this visit had been the possibility of seeing Mr. Shubrick again.  She did not say so, however; and the two girls presently went back to the hall.  This was a luxurious apartment, occupying the centre of the house; octagonal, and open to the outer world both at front and back.  Warm and yet fresh air was playing through it; the odours of flowers filled it; the most commodious of light chairs and settees furnished it; and scattered about the wide, delicious space were the various members of the party.  Mrs. Thayer and Mrs. Copley had been sitting together; just now, as the girls entered, Mrs. Thayer called St. Leger to her.

“I am delighted to see you here, Mr. St. Leger,” she said graciously.  “You know your father was a very old friend of mine.”

“That gives me a sort of claim to your present kindness,” said St. Leger.

“You might put in a claim to kindness anywhere,” returned the lady.  “Don’t you get it, now, if you tell the truth?”

“I have no reason to complain ­in general,” said the young man, smiling.

“You are a little like your father.  He was another.  We were great cronies when I was a girl.  In fact, he was an old beau of mine.  We used to see a vast deal of each other; ­flirting, I suppose you would call it; but how are young people to get along without flirting?  I liked him very much, for I always had a fancy for handsome men; and if you ask him, he will tell you that I was handsome too at that time.  Oh, I was! you may look at me and be incredulous; but I was a belle in those days; and I had a great many handsome men around me, and some not handsome. ....Was I English?  No.  You don’t understand how I could have seen so much of your father.  Well, never doubt a story till you have heard the whole of it.  I was an American girl; but my father and mother were both dead, and I was sent to England, to be brought up by an aunt, who was the nearest relation I had in the world.  She had married an Englishman and settled in England.”

“Then we may claim you,” said Lawrence.  “To all intents and purposes you are English.”

“Might have been,” returned Mrs. Thayer.  “The flirtation ran very high, I can tell you, between your father and me.  He was a poor man then.  I understand he has nobly recovered from that fault.  Is it true?  People say he is made of gold.”

“There is no lack of the material article,” Lawrence admitted.

“No.  Well, the other sort we know he had, or this would never be true of him now.  I did not look so far ahead then.  There is no telling what would have happened, but for a little thing.  Just see how things go.  I might have married in England, and all my life would have been different; and then came along Mr. Thayer.  And the way I came to know him was this.  A cousin of mine in America was going to be married, and her friend was a friend of Mr. Thayer.  Mr. Thayer was coming over to England, and my cousin charged him with a little piece of wedding cake in white paper to bring to me.  Just that little white packet! and Mr. Thayer brought it, and we saw one another, and the end was, I have lived my life on the other side instead of on this side.”

“It’s our loss, I am sure,” said St. Leger civilly.

“You are too polite to say it is mine, but I know you think so.  Perhaps it is.  At any rate, I was determined, and am determined, that my daughter shall see and choose for herself which hemisphere she will live in.  What are you doing in Italy?”

“What everybody does in Italy, looking at the old and enjoying the new.”

“Ah, that’s what it is!” said Mrs. Thayer approvingly.  “That is what one enjoys.  But my husband is one of the other sort.  We divide Italy between us.  He looks at the marbles, and I eat the pomegranates.  Do you like pomegranates? ­No?  I delight in them, and in everything else fresh and new and sweet and acid.  But what I want to know, Mr. St. Leger, is ­how come these old ruins to be so worth looking at?  Hasn’t the human race made progress?  Can’t we raise as good buildings now-a-days, and as good to see, as those old heathen did?”

“I suppose we can, when we copy their work exactly.”

“But how is that?  Christians ought to do better work than heathens.  I do not understand it.”

“No,” said St. Leger, “I do not understand it.”

“Old poetry ­that’s what they study so much at Oxford and Cambridge, and everywhere else; ­and old pictures, and old statues.  I think the world ought to grow wiser as it grows older.  I believe it is prejudice.  There’s my husband crazy to go to Paesturn, ­I’m glad he can’t; the marshes or something are so unhealthy; but I’m going to arrange for you an expedition to the Punta ­Punta di something ­the toe of the boot, you know; it’s delightful; you go on donkeys, and you have the most charming views, and what I know you like better than anything, ­the most charming opportunities for flirtation.”

“It will have to be Miss Thayer and I then,” said Lawrence.  “Miss Copley does not know how.”

“Nonsense!  Don’t tell me.  Every girl does.  She has her own way, I suppose.  Makes it more piquant ­and piquing.”

Lawrence looked over towards the innocent face, so innocent of anything false, he knew, or even of anything ambiguous; a face of pure womanly nature, childlike in its naturalness, although womanly in its gravity.  Perhaps he drew a swift comparison between a man’s chances with a face of that sort, and the counter advantages of Christina’s more conventional beauty.  Mr. Thayer had sat down beside Dolly and was drawing her into talk.

“You are fond of art, Miss Copley.  I remember we met you first in the room of the dying gladiator, in the Capitoline Museum.  But everybody has to go to see the dying gladiator and the rest.”

“I suppose so,” said Dolly.

“I remember, though, I thought you were enjoying it.”

“Oh, I was.”

“I can always find out whether people really enjoy things.  How many times did you go to see the gladiator?  Let me see, ­you were in Rome three months?”

“Nearer four.”

“Four!  Well, and how many times did you see the gladiator?”

“I don’t quite know.  Half a dozen times, I think.  I went until I had got it by heart; and now I can look at it whenever I like.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Thayer.  “The only thing Christina wanted to see a second time was the mosaics; and those she did not get by heart exactly, but brought them away, a good many of them, bodily.  And have you developed any taste for architecture during your travels?”

“I take great pleasure in some architecture,” said Dolly.

“May I ask what instances?  I am curious to see how our tastes harmonise.”

“Ah, but I know nothing about it,” said Dolly.  “I am entirely ­or almost entirely ­ignorant; and you know and understand.”

“‘Almost entirely?’” said Mr. Thayer.  “You have studied the subject?”

“A little,” said Dolly, smiling and blushing.

“Do favour me.  I am desirous to know what you have seen that particularly pleased you.”

“The cathedral at Limburg.”

“Limburg.  Oh ­ah! yes, it was there we first met you.  I was thinking it was in the museum of the Capitol.  Limburg.  You liked that?”

“Very much!”

“Romanesque ­or rather Transition.”

“I do not know what Romanesque is, or Transition either.”

“Did you notice the round arches and the pointed arches?”

“I do not remember.  Yes, I do remember the round arches; but I was thinking rather of the effect of the whole.”

“The church at Limburg shows a mixture of the round Romanesque and the pointed Gothic; Gothic was preparing; that sort of thing belongs to the first half of the thirteenth century.  Well, that bespeaks very good taste.  What next would you mention, Miss Dolly?”

“I don’t know; I have enjoyed so many things.  Perhaps I should say the Doge’s palace at Venice.”

“Ha! the Doge’s palace, hey?  You like the pink and white marble.”

“Don’t you, Mr. Thayer?”

“That’s not what one looks for in architecture.  What do you say to St. Peter’s?”

“You will find a great deal of fault with me.  I did not care for it.”

“Not?  It is Michael Angelo’s work.”

“But knowing the artist is no reason for admiring the work,” said Dolly, smiling.

“You are very independent!  St. Peter’s!  Not to admire St. Peter’s!”

“I admired the magnificence, and the power, and a great many things; but I did not like the building.  Not nearly so much as some others.”

“Now I wish we could go to Paestum, and see what you would say to pure old Greek work.  But it would be as much as our lives are worth, I suppose.”

“Yes, Mr. Thayer,” his wife cried; “don’t talk about Paestum; they are going to-morrow to the point.”

“The point? what point? the coast is full of points.”

“The Punta di Campanella, papa,” said Christina.

“I thought you were going to Capri?”

“We’ll keep Capri till Sandie comes.  He would be a help on the water.  All our marine excursions we will keep until Sandie comes.  I only hope he’ll be good and come.”

The very air seemed full of pleasant anticipations; and Dolly would have been extremely happy; was happy; until on going in to dinner she saw the wineglasses on the table, and bottles suspiciously cooling in water.  Her heart sank down, down.  If she had had time and had dared, she would have remonstrated; but yet what could she say?  She knew, too, that the wine at Mr. Thayer’s table, like everything else on it, would be of the best procurable; better and more alluring than her father could get elsewhere.  In her secret heart there was a bitter unspoken cry of remonstrance.  O friends!  O friends! ­she was ready to say, ­do you know what you are doing?  You are dropping sweet poison into my life; bitter poison; deadly poison, where you little think it; and you do it with smiles and coloured glasses!  She could hardly eat her dinner.  She saw with indescribable pain and a sort of powerless despair, how Mr. Copley felt the license of his friend’s house and example, and how the delicacy of the vintages offered him acted to dull his conscience; Mr. Thayer praising them and hospitably pressing his guest to partake.  He himself drank very moderately and in a kind of mere matter-of-fact way; it was part of the dinner routine; and St. Leger tasted, as a man who knows indeed what is good, but also makes it a matter of no moment; no more than his bread or his napkin.  Mr. Copley drank with eager gusto, and glass after glass; even, Dolly thought, in a kind of bravado.  And this would go on every day while their visit lasted; and perhaps not at dinner only; there were luncheons, and for aught she knew, suppers.  Dolly’s heart was hot within her; so hot that after dinner she could not keep herself from speaking on the subject to Christina.  Yet she must begin as far from her father as possible.  The two girls were sitting on the bank under a fig-tree, looking out on the wonderful spectacle of the bay of Naples at evening.

“There is a matter I have been thinking a great deal about lately,” she said, with a little heartbeat at her daring.

“I daresay,” laughed Christina.  “That is quite in your way.  Oh, I do wish Sandie would come!  He ought to be here.”

“This is no laughing matter, Christina.  It is a serious question.”

“You are never anything but serious, are you?” said her friend.  “If you have a fault, it is that, Dolly.  You don’t laugh enough.”

Dolly was silent and swallowed her answer; for what did Christina know about it? She had not to watch over her father; her father watched over her.  Presently she began again; her voice had a little strain in its tone.

“This is something for you and me to consider; for you and me, and other women who can do anything.  Christina, did you ever think about the use of wine?”

“Wine?” echoed Miss Thayer, a good deal mystified.  “The use of it?  I don’t know any use of it, except to give people, gentlemen, something to talk of at dinner.  Oh, it is good in sickness, I suppose.  What are you thinking of?”

“I am thinking of the harm it does,” said Dolly in a low voice.

“Harm?  What harm?  You are not one of those absurd people I have heard of, who cut down their apple-trees for fear the apples will be made into cider?”

“I have no apple-trees to cut down,” said Dolly.  “But don’t you know, Christina, that there is such a thing as drinking too much wine? and what comes of it?”

“Not among our sort of people,” said Christina.  “I know there are such things as drunkards; but they are in the lower classes, who drink whisky and gin.  Not among gentlemen.”

Dolly choked, and turned her face away to hide the eyes full of tears.

“Too much wine?” Christina repeated.  “One may have too much of anything.  Too much fire will burn up your house; yet fire is a good thing.”

“That’s only burning up your house,” said Dolly sorrowfully.

“Only burning up your house!  Dolly Copley, what are you thinking of?”

“I am thinking of something infinitely worse.  I am thinking of a man losing his manhood; of families losing their stay and their joy, because the father, or the husband, or the brother, has lost himself! ­gone down below his standing as an intellectual creature; ­become a mere animal, given up to low pleasures which make him sink lower and lower in the scale of humanity.  I am thinking of his loss and of their loss, Christina.  I am thinking of the dreadfulness of being ashamed of the dearest thing you have, and the way hearts break under it.  And don’t you know that when the love of wine and the like gets hold of a person, it is stronger than he is?  It makes a slave of him, so that he cannot help himself.”

Christina’s thoughts made a rapid flight over all the persons for whom Dolly could possibly fear such a fate, or in whom she could possibly have seen such an example.  But Mr. St. Leger had the clear, fresh colour of perfect health and condition; Mr. Copley loved wine evidently, but drank it like a gentleman, and gave, to her eyes, no sign of being enslaved.  What could Dolly be thinking of?  Her mother was out of the question.

“I don’t make out what you are at, Dolly,” she said.  “Such things do not happen in our class of society.”

“Yes, they do.  They happen in every class.  And the highest ought to set an example to the lowest.”

“No use if they did.  Anyhow, Dolly, it is nothing you and I can meddle with.”

“I think we ought not to have wine on our tables.”

“Mercy!  Everybody does that.”

“It is offering temptation.”

“To whom?  Our friends are not that sort of people.”

“How do you know but they may be?  How can you tell but the taste or the tendency may be where you least think of it?”

“You don’t mean that Mr. St. Leger has anything of that sort?” said Christina, facing round upon her.

“No more than other people, so far as I know.  I am speaking in general, Christina.  The thing is in the world; and we, I do think, we whose example would influence people, ­I suppose everybody’s example influences somebody else ­I think we ought to do what we can.”

“And not have wine on our dinner-tables!”

“Would that be so very dreadful?”

“It would be very inconvenient, I can tell you, and very disagreeable.  Fancy! no wine on the table.  No one could understand it.  And how our dinner-tables would look, Dolly, with the wine-glasses and the decanters taken off!  And then, what would people talk about?  Wine is such a help in getting through with a dinner-party.  People who do not know anything else, and cannot talk of anything else, can taste wine; and have plenty to say about its colour, and its bouquet, and its age, and its growth, and its manufacture, and where it can be got genuine, and how it can be adulterated.  And so one gets through with the dinner quite comfortably.”

“I should not want to see people who knew no more than that,” said Dolly.

“Oh, but you must.”

“Why?”

“And it does not do to be unfashionable.”

“Why, Christina!  Do you recollect what is said in the epistle of John ­’The world knoweth us not’?  I do not see how a Christian can be fashionable.  To be fashionable, one must follow the ways of the world.”

“Well, we must follow some of them,” cried Christina, flaring up, “or people will not have anything to do with you.”

“That’s what Christ said, ­’Because ye are not of the world, ... therefore the world hateth you.’”

“Do you like to have people hate you?”

“No; but rather that than have Jesus say I do not belong to Him.”

“Dolly,” said Christina, “you are very high-flown!  That might just do for one of Sandie’s speeches.”

“I am glad Mr. Shubrick is such a wise man.”

“He’s just a bit too wise for me.  You see, I am not so superior.  I should like to take him down a peg.  And I ­will if he don’t come soon.”

He did not come in time for the next day’s pleasure-party; so the young ladies had only Mr. St. Leger and Mr. Thayer to accompany them.  Mrs. Copley “went on no such tramps,” she said; and Mrs. Thayer avowed she was tired of them.  The expedition took all day, for they went early and came back late, to avoid the central heat of midday.  It was an extremely beautiful little journey; the road commanding a long series of magnificent views, almost from their first setting out.  They went on donkeys, which was a favourite way with Dolly; at Massa they stopped for a cup of coffee; they climbed Monte San Costanzo; interviewed the hermit and enjoyed the prospect; and finally settled themselves for as pleasant a rest as possible among the myrtles on the solitary point of the coast.  From here their eyes had a constant regale.  The blue Mediterranean spread out before them, Capri in the middle distance, and the beauties of the shore nearer by, were an endless entertainment for Dolly.  Christina declared she had seen it all before; Mr. Thayer found nothing worthy of much attention unless it had antiquities to be examined; and the fourth member of the party was somewhat too busy with human and social interests to leave his attention free.

Mr. St. Leger had been now for a long time very unobtrusive in his attentions to Dolly, and Dolly partly hoped he had given her up; but that was a mistake.  Perhaps he thought it was only a matter of time, for Dolly to get acquainted with him and accustomed to him; perhaps he thought himself sure of his game, if the fish had only line enough.  Having the powerful support of Dolly’s father and mother, all worldly interests on the side of his suit, a person and presence certainly unobjectionable, to say the least; how could a girl like Dolly, in the long run, remain unimpressed?  He would give her time.  Meanwhile, Mr. St. Leger was enjoying himself; seeing her daily and familiarly; he could wait comfortably.  It would appear by all this that Lawrence was not an ardent man; but constitutions are different; there is an ardour of attack, and there is an ardour of persistence; and the latter, I think, belonged to him.  Besides, he had sense enough to see that a too eager pressing of his cause with Dolly would ruin all.  So he had waited, not discontentedly, and bided his time.  Now, however, he began to think it desirable on many accounts to have the question decided.  Mr. Copley would not stay much longer in Italy, Lawrence was certain, and the present way of life would come to an end; if his advantages were ever to bear fruit, it should be ripe now.  Moreover, one or two other, and seemingly inconsistent, considerations came in.  Lawrence admired Miss Thayer.  Her beauty was even more striking, to his fancy, than Dolly’s; if it were also more like other beauties he had seen.  She had money too, and Dolly had none.  Truly, Mr. St. Leger had enough of his own; but when did ever a man with enough not therefore desire more?  He admired Christina very much; she suited him; if Dolly should prove after all obdurate, here was his chance for making himself amends.  Cool! for an ardent lover; but Mr. St. Leger was of a calm temperament, and these suggestions did come into his mind back of his liking for Dolly.

This liking was strong upon him the day of the excursion to the Punta di Campanella.  Of necessity he was Christina’s special attendant, Mr. Thayer being Dolly’s.  Many girls would not have relished such an arrangement, Lawrence knew; his sisters would not.  And Dolly was in an acme of delight.  Lawrence watched her whenever they came near each other, and marvelled at the sweet, childish-womanish face.  It was in a ripple of pleasure; the brown, considerate eyes were sparkling, roving with quick, watchful glances over everything, and losing as few as possible of the details of the way.  Talking to Mr. Thayer now and then, Lawrence saw her, with the most innocent, sweet mouth in the world; her smile and that play of lip and eye bewitched him whenever he got a glimpse of it.  The play of Christina’s features was never so utterly free, so absent from thought of self, so artless in its fun.  Now and then, too, there came the soft, low ring of a clear voice, in laughter or talking, bearing the same characteristics of a sweet spirit and a simple heart; and yet, when in repose, Dolly’s face was strong in its sense and womanliness.  The combination held Mr. St. Leger captive.  I do not know how he carried on his needful attentions to his companion; with a mechanical necessity, I suppose; when all the while he was watching Dolly and contrasting the two girls.  He was not such a fool as not to know which indications promised him the best wife; or if not him, the man who could get her.  And he resolved, if a chance offered, he would speak to Dolly that very day.  For here was Christina, if his other hope failed.  He was cool; nevertheless, he was in earnest.

They had climbed up Monte San Costanzo and admired the view.  They had rested, and enjoyed a capital lunch among the myrtles on the point.  It was when they were on their way home in the afternoon, and not till then, that the opportunity presented itself which he had wished for.  On the way home, the order of march was broken up.  Christina sometimes dropped St. Leger to ride with her father; sometimes called Dolly to be her companion; and at last, declaring that she did not want Mr. St. Leger to have a sense of sameness about the day, she set off with her father ahead, begging Dolly to amuse the other gentleman.

Which Dolly made not the least effort to do.  The scenery was growing more lovely with every minute’s lengthening shadows; and she rode along, giving all her attention to it, not making to Mr. St. Leger even the remarks she might have made to Mr. Thayer.  The change of companions to her was not welcome.  St. Leger found the burden of conversation must lie upon him.

“We have not seen much of each other for a long time,” he began.

“Only two or three times a day,” said Dolly.

“And you think that is enough, perhaps!” said Lawrence hastily.

“Don’t you think more would have a tendency to produce what Christina calls a ’sense of sameness’?” said Dolly, turning towards him a face all dimpled with fun.

“That is according to circumstances.  The idea is not flattering.  But, Miss Dolly,” said Lawrence, pulling himself up, “in all this while ­these months ­that we have been travelling together, we have had time to learn to know each other pretty well. You must have been able to make up your mind about me.”

“Which part of your character?”

“Miss Dolly,” said Lawrence with some heat, “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?  But I did not know that I had to make up my mind about anything concerning you; I thought that was done long ago.”

“And you do not like me any better now than you did then?”

“Perhaps I do,” said Dolly slowly.  “I always liked you, Mr. St. Leger, and I had cause.  You have been a very kind friend to us.”

“For your sake, Dolly.”

“I am sorry for that,” she said.

“And I have waited all this time in the hope that you would get accustomed to me, and your objections would wear away.  You know what your father and mother wish concerning us.  Does their wish not weigh with you?”

“No,” said Dolly very quietly.  “This is my affair, not theirs.”

“It is their affair so far as your interests are involved.  And I do not wish to praise myself; but you know they think that those interests would be secured by a marriage with me.  And I believe I could make you happy, Dolly.”

Dolly shook her head.  “How could you?” she said.  “We belong to two opposite parties, and are following two different lines of life.  You would not like my way, and I should not like yours.  How could either of us be happy?”

“Even granting all that,” said Lawrence, “why should you not bear with my peculiarities, and I with yours, and neither be the worse?  That is very frequently done.”

“Is it?  I do not think it ought to be done.”

“Let us prove that it can be.  I will never interfere with you, Dolly.”

“Yes, you would,” said Dolly, dimpling all over again.  “Do you think you would make up your mind to have no wine in your cellar or on your table?  Take that for one thing.  I should have no wine on mine.”

“That’s a crotchet of yours,” said he, smiling at her:  he thought if this were all, the thing might be managed.

“That is only one thing, Mr. St. Leger,” Dolly went on very gravely now.  “I should be unfashionable in a hundred ways, and you would not like that.  I should spend money on objects and for causes that you would not care about nor agree to.  I am telling you all this to reconcile you to doing without me.”

“Your refusal is absolute, then?”

“Yes.”

“You would not bring up these extraneous things, Dolly, if you had any love for me.”

“I do not know why that should make any difference.  It might make it hard.”

“Then you have no love for me?”

“I am afraid not,” said Dolly gently.  “Not what you mean.  And without that, you would not wish for a different answer from me.”

“Yes, I would!” said he.  “All that would come; but you know your own business best.”

Dolly thought she did, and the proposition remained uncontroverted.  Therewith the discourse died; and the miles that remained were made in unsocial silence.  Dolly feared she had given some pain, but doubted it could not be very great; and she was glad to have the explanation over.  Perhaps the pain was more than she knew, although Lawrence certainly was not a desperate wooer; nevertheless, he was disappointed, and he was mortified, and mortification is hard to a man.  For the matter of that, it is hard to anybody.  It was not till the villa occupied by the Thayers was close before them that he spoke again.

“Do you expect to stay much longer in Italy?”

“I am afraid not,” Dolly answered.

“I have reason to think Mr. Copley will not.  Indeed, I know as much.  I thought you might like to be informed.”

Dolly said nothing.  Her eyes roved over the beautiful bay, almost with an echo of Eve’s “Must I then leave thee, Paradise?” in her heart.  The smoke curling up from Vesuvius caught the light; little sails skimming over the sea reflected it; the sweetness of thousands of roses and orange blossoms, and countless other flowers, filled all the air; it was a time and a scene of nature’s most abundant and beautiful bounty.  Dolly checked her donkey, and for a few minutes stood looking; then with a brave determination that she would enjoy it all as much as she could while she had it, she went into the house.