She sank down as she spoke upon one of the rough stone seats which are scattered about the cape.  Mr. Dollond had ensconced himself behind them, and was phlegmatically starting on a rough study of the old town, which rose in a ragged, compact mass a hundred yards away, with its background of sad olives and sapphire sky.

Rainham followed the lady’s example, tired himself by their scramble under the hot sun, and contented himself for a while by turning a deaf ear and polite, little mechanical gestures to her perennial flow of inconsequent chatter, which seemed quite impervious to fatigue, while he rested his eyes on the charming prospect at their feet; the ragged descent of red rocks, broken here and there by patches of burnt grass and pink mallows, the little sea-girt chapel of St. Ampelio, and the waste of violet sea.  His inattentive ear was caught at last by the name of Lightmark occurring, recurring, in the light eddy of his companion’s speech, and he turned to her with an air of apologetic inquiry.

“Yes,” Mrs. Dollond was observing, “it was quite a grand wedding; rather pretentious, you know, we thought it, for the Sylvesters—­but, oh, a great affair!  We stayed in London for it, although Hugh wanted to take a holiday.  I could tell you all about the bridesmaids’ dresses, and Mrs. Lightmark’s, but I suppose you would not care.  She looked very charming!”

“Yes?” said Rainham, with a curious light in his averted eyes.  Then he added, somewhat abruptly, “Brides always do, I suppose?”

“Of course, if they have a good dressmaker.  And the presents—­there was quite a show.  Your pearl necklace—­how I envied her that!  But, after all, weddings are so much alike.”

“I have never been to one,” said the other absently.

“Ah, then you ought, if only to get a little experience before your own time comes, you know.  Yes, you really ought to have been there.  It was quite a foregone conclusion that you would be best man.  It was so funny to see Colonel Lightmark in that role, with that young Mr. Sylvester giving away the bride.  It would have been so much better if they could have changed parts.”

“I am sorry to interrupt you,” said Mr. Dollond, getting up and putting away his sketch-book; “I can’t sketch; the place is full of locusts, and they are getting into my boots.”

Mrs. Dollond started up, shaking her skirts apprehensively, with an affectation of horror.

“How I do hate jumping things!  And, anyhow, I suppose we ought to be getting back to our hotel, or we shall be late for dinner.  You don’t know what Hugh can be like when one is late for dinner.  He is capable of beginning without me.”

Rainham had risen with a ready response to her words, bordering almost on the ludicrous; and half an hour later he was congratulating himself that at least six seats intervened between his place and that of Mrs. Dollond at the dinner-table.