The signorino was not in the house; he had gone up to the villa.  But he had sent a message that later in the evening he intended to pay his respects to old friends.  Madame Petrucci was beautifully dressed in soft black silk, old lace, and a white Indian shawl.  Miss Prunty had on her starchiest collar and most formal tie.  Goneril saw it was necessary that she, likewise, should deck herself in her best.  She was too young and impressionable not to be influenced by the flutter of excitement and interest which filled the whole of the little cottage.  Goneril, too, was excited and anxious, although Signor Graziano had seemed so old and like a coffee-bean.  She made no progress in the piece of embroidery she was working as a present for the two old ladies; jumping up and down to look out of the window.  When, about eight o’clock, the door-bell rang, Goneril blushed, Madame Petrucci gave a pretty little shriek, Miss Prunty jumped up and rang for the coffee.  A moment afterwards the signorino entered.  While he was greeting her hostesses, Goneril cast a rapid glance at him.  He was tall for an Italian; rather bent and rather grey; fifty at least, therefore very old.  He certainly was brown, but his features were fine and good, and he had a distinguished and benevolent air that somehow made her think of an abbe, a French abbe of the last century.  She could quite imagine him saying “Enfant de St. Louis; montez au ciel!”

Thus far had she got in her meditations, when she felt herself addressed in clear, half-mocking tones—­

“And how, this evening, is Madamigella Ruth?”

So he had seen her this evening, binding his corn.

“I am quite well, padrone,” she said, smiling shyly.

The two old ladies looked on amazed, for of course they were not in the secret.

“Signor Graziano, Miss Goneril Hamelyn,” said Miss Prunty, rather severely.

Goneril felt that the time was come for silence and good manners.  She sat quite quiet over her embroidery, listening to the talk of Sontag, of Clementi, of musicians and singers dead and gone.  She noticed that the ladies treated Signor Graziano with the utmost reverence; even the positive Miss Prunty furling her opinions in deference to his gayest hint.  They talked, too, of Madame Lilli; and always as if she were still young and fair, as if she had died yesterday, leaving the echo of her triumph loud behind her.  And yet all this had happened years before Goneril had ever seen the light.

“Mees Goneril is feeling very young!” said the signorino, suddenly turning his sharp kind eyes upon her.

“Yes,” said Goneril, all confusion.

Madame Petrucci looked almost annoyed; the gay serene little lady that nothing ever annoyed.

“It is she that is young!” she cried, in answer to an unspoken thought.  “She is a baby!”

“Oh, I am seventeen!” said Goneril.

They all laughed, and seemed at ease again.