“I will do all I can,” said Philip in a low voice.  It was the first time he had had anything to do.  He kissed his mother and sister and puzzled Irma.  The hall was warm and attractive as he looked back into it from the cold March night, and he departed for Italy reluctantly, as for something commonplace and dull.

Before Mrs. Herriton went to bed she wrote to Mrs. Theobald, using plain language about Lilia’s conduct, and hinting that it was a question on which every one must definitely choose sides.  She added, as if it was an afterthought, that Mrs. Theobald’s letter had arrived that morning.

Just as she was going upstairs she remembered that she never covered up those peas.  It upset her more than anything, and again and again she struck the banisters with vexation.  Late as it was, she got a lantern from the tool-shed and went down the garden to rake the earth over them.  The sparrows had taken every one.  But countless fragments of the letter remained, disfiguring the tidy ground.

Chapter 2

When the bewildered tourist alights at the station of Monteriano, he finds himself in the middle of the country.  There are a few houses round the railway, and many more dotted over the plain and the slopes of the hills, but of a town, mediaeval or otherwise, not the slightest sign.  He must take what is suitably termed a “legno”—­a piece of wood—­and drive up eight miles of excellent road into the middle ages.  For it is impossible, as well as sacrilegious, to be as quick as Baedeker.

It was three in the afternoon when Philip left the realms of commonsense.  He was so weary with travelling that he had fallen asleep in the train.  His fellow-passengers had the usual Italian gift of divination, and when Monteriano came they knew he wanted to go there, and dropped him out.  His feet sank into the hot asphalt of the platform, and in a dream he watched the train depart, while the porter who ought to have been carrying his bag, ran up the line playing touch-you-last with the guard.  Alas! he was in no humour for Italy.  Bargaining for a legno bored him unutterably.  The man asked six lire; and though Philip knew that for eight miles it should scarcely be more than four, yet he was about to give what he was asked, and so make the man discontented and unhappy for the rest of the day.  He was saved from this social blunder by loud shouts, and looking up the road saw one cracking his whip and waving his reins and driving two horses furiously, and behind him there appeared the swaying figure of a woman, holding star-fish fashion on to anything she could touch.  It was Miss Abbott, who had just received his letter from Milan announcing the time of his arrival, and had hurried down to meet him.