blue dimness of France.  Yes, she would say she wanted to have this entirely to herself.  How obviously sensible if each of them had their own special place to sit in apart.  It was essential to her comfort that she should be able to be apart, left alone, not talked to.  The others ought to like it best too.  Why herd?  One had enough of that in England, with one’s relations and friends—­oh, the numbers of them!—­pressing on one continually.  Having successfully escaped them for four weeks why continue, and with persons having no earthly claim on one, to herd?

She lit a cigarette.  She began to feel secure.  Those two had gone for a walk.  There was no sign of Mrs. Fisher.  How very pleasant this was.

Somebody came out through the glass doors, just as she was drawing a deep breath of security.  Surely it couldn’t be Mrs. Fisher, wanting to sit with her?  Mrs. Fisher had her battlements.  She ought to stay on them, having snatched them.  It would be too tiresome if she wouldn’t, and wanted not only to have them and her sitting-room but to establish herself in this garden as well.

No; it wasn’t Mrs. Fisher, it was the cook.

She frowned.  Was she going to have to go on ordering the food? 
Surely one or other of those two waving women would do that now.

The cook, who had been waiting in increasing agitation in the kitchen, watching the clock getting nearer to lunch—­time while she still was without knowledge of what lunch was to consist of, had gone at last to Mrs. Fisher, who had immediately waved her away.  She then wandered about the house seeking a mistress, any mistress, who would tell her what to cook, and finding none; and at last, directed by Francesca, who always knew where everybody was, came out to Lady Caroline.

Dominica had provided this cook.  She was Costanza, the sister of that one of his cousins who kept a restaurant down on the piazza.  She helped her brother in his cooking when she had no other job, and knew every sort of fat, mysterious Italian dish such as the workmen of Castagneto, who crowded the restaurant at midday, and the inhabitants of Mezzago when they came over on Sundays, loved to eat.  She was a fleshless spinster of fifty, grey-haired, nimble, rich of speech, and thought Lady Caroline more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen; and so did Domenico; and so did the boy Giuseppe who helped Domenico and was, besides, his nephew; and so did the girl Angela who helped Francesca and was, besides, Domenico’s niece; and so did Francesca herself.  Domenico and Francesca, the only two who had seen them, thought the two ladies who arrived last very beautiful, but compared to the fair young lady who arrived first they were as candles to the electric light that had lately been installed, and as the tin tubs in the bedrooms to the wonderful new bathroom their master had had arranged on his last visit.

Lady Caroline scowled at the cook.  The scowl, as usual, was transformed on the way into what appeared to be an intent and beautiful gravity, and Costanza threw up her hands and took the saints aloud to witness that here was the very picture of the Mother of God.