Ruggiero and his brother worked hard at the preparations, silent, untiring and efficient as usual, but delighted in their hearts at the prospect of something less monotonous than the daily sail or the daily row within sight of Sorrento.  To men who have knocked about the sea for years, from Santa Cruz to Sebastopol, the daily life of a sailor on a little pleasure boat lacks interest, and if circumstances had been, different Ruggiero would probably have shipped before now as boatswain on board one of the neat schooners which are yearly built at the Piano di Sorrento, to be sold with their cargoes of salt as soon as they reach Buenos Ayres.  But Ruggiero had contracted that malady of the heart which had taken him to the chemist’s for the first time in his life, and which materially hindered the formation of any plan by which he might be obliged to leave his present situation.  Moreover the disease showed no signs of yielding; on the contrary, the action of the vital organ concerned became more and more spasmodic and alarming, while its possessor grew daily leaner and more silent.

The last package had been taken down, the last of the score of articles which the Marchesa was sure to want with her in the sail boat before she reached the spot where the main cargo of comforts would be waiting; the last sandwich, the last box of sweetmeats, the iced lemonade, the wraps and the parasols were all stowed away in their places.  Then San Miniato went to fetch the Marchesa, marshalling in his two porters with their chair between them.

“Dearest Marchesa,” said the Count, “if you will give yourself the trouble to sit in this chair, I will promise that no further exertion shall be required of you.”

The Marchesa di Mola looked up with a glance of sleepy astonishment.

“And why in that chair, dearest friend?  I am so comfortable here.  And why have you brought those two men with you?”

“Have you forgotten our dinner at Tragara?” asked San Miniato.

“Tragara!” gasped the Marchesa.  “You are not going to take me to Tragara!  Good heavens!  I am utterly exhausted!  I shall die before we get to the boat.”

“Altro e parlar di morte—­altro e morire,” laughed San Miniato, quoting the famous song.  “It is one thing to talk of death, it is quite another to die.  Only this little favour Marchesa gentilissima—­to seat yourself in this chair.  We will do the rest.”

“Without a hat?  Just as I am?  Impossible!  Come in an hour—­then I shall be ready.  My maid, San Miniato—­send for Teresina.  Dio mio!  I can never go!  Go without us, dearest friend—­go and dine on your hideous rocks and leave us the little comfort we need so much!”

But protestations were vain.  Teresina appeared and fastened the hat of the period upon her mistress’s head.  The hat of the period chanced to be a one-sided monstrosity at that time, something between a cart wheel, an umbrella and a flower garden, depending for its stability upon the proper position of several solid skewers, apparently stuck through the head of the wearer.  This headpiece having been adjusted the Marchesa asked for a cigarette, lighted it and looked about her.