“Didn’t he?  No.  By thunder, it wasn’t that time.  Well, at any rate, that man, I believe, is at the bottom of the row.  It’s my belief that he’s trying to cut me out, and he’ll find he’s got a hard row to hoe before he succeeds in that project.”

And with these words the Baron sat glaring after the Italian, with something in his eye that resembled faintly the fierce glance of Scone Dacres.

The Italian rode on.  A few miles further were the two carriages.  Minnie and her sister were sitting on the front seats, and saw the stranger as he advanced.  He soon came near enough to be distinguished, and Mrs. Willoughby recognized Girasole.

Her surprise was so great that she uttered an exclamation of terror, which startled the other ladies, and made them all look in that direction.

“How very odd!” said Ethel, thoughtfully.

“And now I suppose you’ll all go and say that I brought him too,” said Minnie.  “That’s always the way you do.  You never seem to think that I may be innocent.  You always blame me for every little mite of a thing that may happen.”

No one made any remark, and there was silence in the carriage as the stranger approached.  The ladies bowed somewhat coolly, except Minnie, who threw upon him the most imploring look that could possibly be sent from human eyes, and the Italian’s impressible nature thrilled before those beseeching, pleading, earnest, unfathomable, tender, helpless, innocent orbs.  Removing his hat, he bowed low.

“I haf not been awara,” he said, politely, in his broken English, “that youar ladysippa’s bin intend to travalla.  Ees eet not subito intenzion?”

Mrs. Willoughby made a polite response of a general character, the Italian paused a moment to drink in deep draughts from Minnie’s great beseeching eyes that were fixed upon his, and then, with a low bow, he passed on.

“I believe I’m losing my senses,” said Mrs. Willoughby.

“Why, Kitty darling?” asked Minnie.

“I don’t know how it is, but I actually trembled when that man came up, and I haven’t got over it yet.”

“I’m sure I don’t see why,” said Minnie.  “You’re always imagining things, though.  Now isn’t she, Ethel dearest?”

“Well, really, I don’t see much in the Count to make one tremble.  I suppose poor dear Kitty has been too much agitated lately, and it’s her poor nerves.”

“I have my lavender, Kitty dear,” said Lady Dalrymple.  “Won’t you take it?  Or would you prefer valerian?”

“Thanks, much, but I do not need it,” said Mrs. Willoughby.  “I suppose it will pass off.”

“I’m sure the poor Count never did any body any harm,” said Minnie, plaintively; “so you needn’t all abuse him so—­unless you’re all angry at him for saving my life.  I remember a time when you all thought very differently, and all praised him up, no end.”

“Really, Minnie darling, I have nothing against the Count, only once he was a little too intrusive; but he seems to have got over that; and if he’ll only be nice and quiet and proper, I’m sure I’ve nothing to say against him.”