“There!  I have preached you a sermon, I am afraid.  Are you tired?” and his bright glance searched the faces about him.

Their expression would have been satisfactory without the eager protestations that answered his question.

When, a little later, Barbara and Bettina, each seated before her dainty toilet-table, were brushing their hair, they, as usual, chatted about the events of the day.  Never had there been so much to talk over and so little time to do it in as during these crowded weeks, when pleasure and study were hand in hand.  For though they read and studied, yet there were drives, and receptions in artists’ studios, and, because of Robert Sumner’s long residence in Florence, they had even begun to receive invitations to small and select parties, where they met charming people.

This very morning they had driven with Mrs. Douglas through some of the oldest parts of Florence.  They were reading together George Eliot’s “Romola,” and were connecting all its events with this city in which the scenes are laid.  Read in this way, it seemed like a new book to them, and possessed an air of reality that awakened their enthusiasm as nothing else could have done.  And then in the afternoon had been the meeting with the new friend; tea in the little garden behind the house; and the evening on the balcony.

Naturally their conversation soon turned to Howard Sinclair.

“What a strange life for one so young!” said Bettina.  “Malcom says there is no limit to his wealth.  He lives in the winter in one of those grandest houses on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston, and has summer houses in two or three places.  And yet how poor in many ways!” she continued after a little pause—­“so much poorer than we!  No father and mother,—­no brothers and sisters,—­and forced to leave his home because he is so ill!  Poor fellow!  How do you like him, Bab?  He seemed to admire you sufficiently, for he hardly took his eyes from you.”

“Like him?” slowly returned Barbara.  “To tell the truth, Betty, I hardly know.  Somehow I feel strangely about him.  I like him well enough so far, but I believe I am a bit afraid, and whether it is of him or not, I cannot tell.  Somehow I feel as if things are going to be different from what they have been, and—­I don’t know—­I believe I almost wish Malcom had not known him.”

“Why, Bab dear! what do you mean?  Don’t be nervous; that is not like you.  Nothing could happen to make us unhappy while we are with these dear people,—­nothing, that is, if our dear ones at home are well.  I wish he had not stared at you so much with those great eyes, if it makes you feel uncomfortable, but how he could have helped admiring you, sister mine, is more than I know,—­for you were lovely beyond everything this afternoon;” and Betty impulsively sprang up to give her sister a hug and a kiss.

“To change the subject,” she added, “how did you like Mr. Sumner’s talk this evening?”