“How old were you then?” inquired Wilfrid.

“Sixteen.  I can sing better now, I know; but I had voice then, and he felt that I had.  I forgot where we were, till people stood round us, and he hurried me away from them, and said I must sing to him in some quiet place.  I promised to, and he promised he would have dinner for me at Richmond Hill, in the country, and he would bring friends to hear me.”

“Go on,” said Wilfrid, rather sharply.

She sighed.  “I only saw him once after that.  It was such a miserable day!  It rained.  It was Saturday.  I did not expect to find him in the rain; but there he stood, exactly where he had given me the handkerchief.  He smiled kindly, as I came up.  I dislike gloomy people!  His face was always fresh and nice.  His moustache reminded me of Italy.  I used to think of him under a great warm sky, with olives and vine-trees and mulberries like my father used to speak of.  I could have flung my arms about his neck.”

“Did you?” The cornet gave a strangled note.

“Oh, no!” said Emilia seriously.  “But I told him how happy the thought of going into the country made me, and that it was almost like going to Italy.  He told me he would take me to Italy, if I liked.  I could have knelt at his feet.  Unfortunately his friends could not come.  Still, I was to go, and dine, and float on the water, plucking flowers.  I determined to fancy myself in Venice, which is the place my husband must take me to, when I am married to him.  I will give him my whole body and soul for his love, when I am there!”

Here the cornet was capable of articulate music for a moment, but it resolved itself into:  “Well, well!  Yes, go on!”

“I took his arm this time.  It gave me my first timid feeling that I remember, and he laughed at me, and drove it quite away, telling me his name:  Augustus Frederick what was it?  Augustus Frederick—­it began with G something.  O me! have I really forgotten?  Christian names are always easier to remember.  A captain he was—­a riding one; just like you.  I think you are all kind!”

“Extremely,” muttered the ironical cornet.  “A.F.G.;—­those are the initials on the handkerchief!”

“They are!” cried Emilia.  “It must have been his own handkerchief!”

“You have achieved the discovery,” quoth Wilfrid.  “He dropped it there overnight, and found it just as you were passing in the morning.”

“That must be impossible,” said Emilia, and dismissed the subject forthwith, in a feminine power of resolve to be blind to it.

“I am afraid,” she took up her narrative, “my father is sometimes really almost mad.  He does such things!  I had walked under this gentleman’s umbrella to the bridge between the park and the gardens with the sheep, and beautiful flowers in beds.  In an instant my father came up right in our faces.  He caught hold of my left hand.  I thought he wanted to shake it,