She wrote to them frequently during the winter—­more frequently than she wrote to her mother.  Her letters were always prosperous.  Florence she found perfectly sweet, Naples a dream, but very whiffy.  In Rome one had simply to sit still and feel.  Philip, however, declared that she was improving.  He was particularly gratified when in the early spring she began to visit the smaller towns that he had recommended.  “In a place like this,” she wrote, “one really does feel in the heart of things, and off the beaten track.  Looking out of a Gothic window every morning, it seems impossible that the middle ages have passed away.”  The letter was from Monteriano, and concluded with a not unsuccessful description of the wonderful little town.

“It is something that she is contented,” said Mrs. Herriton.  “But no one could live three months with Caroline Abbott and not be the better for it.”

Just then Irma came in from school, and she read her mother’s letter to her, carefully correcting any grammatical errors, for she was a loyal supporter of parental authority—­Irma listened politely, but soon changed the subject to hockey, in which her whole being was absorbed.  They were to vote for colours that afternoon—­yellow and white or yellow and green.  What did her grandmother think?

Of course Mrs. Herriton had an opinion, which she sedately expounded, in spite of Harriet, who said that colours were unnecessary for children, and of Philip, who said that they were ugly.  She was getting proud of Irma, who had certainly greatly improved, and could no longer be called that most appalling of things—­a vulgar child.  She was anxious to form her before her mother returned.  So she had no objection to the leisurely movements of the travellers, and even suggested that they should overstay their year if it suited them.

Lilia’s next letter was also from Monteriano, and Philip grew quite enthusiastic.

“They’ve stopped there over a week!” he cried.  “Why!  I shouldn’t have done as much myself.  They must be really keen, for the hotel’s none too comfortable.”

“I cannot understand people,” said Harriet.  “What can they be doing all day?  And there is no church there, I suppose.”

“There is Santa Deodata, one of the most beautiful churches in Italy.”

“Of course I mean an English church,” said Harriet stiffly.  “Lilia promised me that she would always be in a large town on Sundays.”

“If she goes to a service at Santa Deodata’s, she will find more beauty and sincerity than there is in all the Back Kitchens of Europe.”

The Back Kitchen was his nickname for St. James’s, a small depressing edifice much patronized by his sister.  She always resented any slight on it, and Mrs. Herriton had to intervene.

“Now, dears, don’t.  Listen to Lilia’s letter.  ’We love this place, and I do not know how I shall ever thank Philip for telling me it.  It is not only so quaint, but one sees the Italians unspoiled in all their simplicity and charm here.  The frescoes are wonderful.  Caroline, who grows sweeter every day, is very busy sketching.’ "