When they were halfway home, a thin, high voice struck into the silence, deliberately clear: 

“Who is the Signorina Penfold?”

“Her mother is a widow.  They have lived here about two years.”

“She is not pretty.  She is too pale.  I do not like that hair,” said Felicia, viciously.

Victoria could not help an unseen smile.

“Everybody here thinks her pretty.  She is very clever, and a beautiful artist,” she said, with slight severity.

The gesture beside her was scarcely discernible.  But Victoria thought it was a toss of the head.

“Everybody in Italy can paint.  It is as common—­as common as lizards!  There are dozens of people in Lucca who can paint—­a whole villa—­ceilings, walls—­what you like.  Nobody thinks anything at all about them.  But Italian girls are very clever also!  There were two girls in Lucca—­Marchesine—­the best family in Lucca.  They got all the prizes at the Liceo, and then they went to Pisa to the University; and one of them was a Doctor of Law; and when they came home, all the street in which they lived and their palazzo were lit up.  And they were very pretty too!”

“And you—­did you go to the Liceo, Felicia?”

“No!  I had never any education—­none, none, none!  But I could get it, if I wanted,” said the voice, defiantly.

“Of course you could.  I have asked your mother to stay with us till Christmas.  You might get some lessons in Carlisle.  We could send you in.”

Felicia, however, made no response to this at all, and Victoria felt that her proposal had fallen flat.  But, after a minute or two, she heard: 

“I should like—­to learn—­to ride!”

Much emphasis on the last word; accompanied by nodding of the fantastic little head.

“Well, we shall see!” laughed Victoria, indulgently.

“And then—­I would go out—­with Lord Tatham!” said Felicia.  “Oh, but he is too divine on horseback!  There were some Italian cavalry officers at Lucca.  I used to run to the window every time to see them pass by.  But he is nobler—­he is handsomer!”

Victoria, taken by surprise, wondered if it would not be well to administer a little snubbing to compliments so unabashed.  She tried.  But Felicia interrupted her: 

“Do you not admire him—­your son?” she said eagerly, slipping up close to Victoria.  “Can he jump and swim rivers—­on his horse—­and come down mountains—­on his haunches—­like our cavalleria?  I am certain he can!”

“He can do most things on a horse.  When the hunting begins, you will see,” said Victoria, smiling in spite of herself.

“Tell me, please, what is the hunting?  And about the shooting, too.  Lord Tatham told me—­this afternoon—­some ladies shoot.  Oh, but I will learn to shoot!  I swear it—­yes!  Now tell me!”

Thus attacked, the formidable Victoria capitulated.  She was soon in the midst of stories of her Harry, from his first pony upward.  And she had not gone far before a tiny hand slipped itself into hers and nestled there; moving and quivering occasionally, like a wild bird voluntarily tame.  And when the drive ended, Victoria was quite sorry to lose its lithe softness.