“And have they always lived together?”

“Ever since Madame Lilli died,” and Miss Hamelyn named a very celebrated singer.

“Why?” cried Goneril, quite excited; “were they singers too?”

“Madame Petrucci; nevertheless a lady of the highest respectability.  Miss Prunty was Madame Lilli’s secretary.”

“How nice!” cried the young girl, “how interesting!  Oh, auntie, I’m so glad you found them out.”

“So am I, child; but please remember it is not an ordinary pension.  They only take you, Goneril, till you are strong enough to travel, as an especial favour to me and to their old friend, Mrs. Gorthrup.”

“I’ll remember, auntie.”

By this time they were driving under the terrace in front of the little house.

“Goneril,” said the elder lady, “I shall leave you outside; you can play in the garden or the orchard.”

“Very well.”

Miss Hamelyn left the carriage and ascended the steep little flight of steps that leads from the road to the cottage garden.

In the porch a singular figure was awaiting her.

“Good afternoon, Madame Petrucci,” said Miss Hamelyn.

A slender old lady, over sixty, rather tall, in a brown silk skirt, and a white burnouse that showed the shrunken slimness of her arms, came eagerly forward.  She was still rather pretty, with small refined features, large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow ringlets down her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago.

“Oh, dear Miss Hamelyn,” she cried, “how glad I am to see you.  And have you brought your charming young relation?”

She spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and bountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an impression of insincerity.  Yet it was said with truth that Giulia Petrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy.

“Goneril is outside” said Miss Hamelyn.  “How is Miss Prunty?”

“Brigida?  Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida.  She is as usual fatiguing herself with our accounts.”  The old lady led the way into the darkened parlour.  It was small and rather stiff.  As one’s eyes became accustomed to the dim green light one noticed the incongruity of the furniture; the horsehair chairs and sofa, and large accountant’s desk with ledgers; the large Pleyel grand piano, a bookcase, in which all the books were rare copies or priceless MSS. of old-fashioned operas; hanging against the wall an inlaid guitar and some faded laurel crowns; moreover, a fine engraving of a composer, twenty years ago the most popular man in Italy; lastly, an oil-colour portrait, by Winterman, of a fascinating blonde, with very bare white shoulders, holding in her hands a scroll, on which were inscribed some notes of music, under the title Giulia Petrucci.  In short, the private parlour of an elderly and respectable Diva of the year ’40.