“A virgin lily,” suggested Don Francesco.

“I wish I could manage to come,” replied Mr. Heard.  “But I must look for a cousin of mine to-morrow; Mrs. Meadows.  Perhaps you know her?”

The priest said: 

“We all know Mrs. Meadows.  And we all like her.  Unfortunately she lives far, far away; right up there,” and he pointed vaguely towards the sirocco clouds.  “In the Old Town, I mean.  She dwells like a hermit, all alone.  You can drive up there in a carriage, of course.  It is a pity all these nice people live so far away.  There is Count Caloveglia, for instance, whom I would like to see every day of my life.  He talks better English than I do, the old humbug!  He, too, is a hermit.  But he will be down here to-morrow.  He never misses the theatricals.”

Everybody seems to be a hermit hereabouts, thought Mr. Heard.  And yet this place is seething with people!

Aloud he said: 

“So my cousin lives up in the fog.  And does it always hang about like this?”

“Oh dear no!” replied the Duchess.  “It goes away sometimes, in the afternoon.  The sirocco, this year, has been most exceptional.  Most exceptional!  Don’t you think so, Denis?”

“Really couldn’t say, Duchess.  You know I only arrived last week.”

“Most exceptional!  Don Francesco will bear me out.”

“It blows,” said the priest, “when the good God wishes it to blow.  He has been wishing pretty frequently of late.”

“I am writing to your cousin,” the Duchess remarked, “to ask her to my small annual gathering after the festival of Saint Dodekanus.  To-morrow, you know.  Quite an informal little affair.  I may count on you, Bishop?  You’ll all come, won’t you?  You too, Mr. Keith.  But no long words, remember!  Nothing about reflexes and preternatural and things like that.  And not a syllable about the Incarnation, please.  It scares me.  What’s the name of her villa, Denis?”

“Mon Repos.  Rather a commonplace name, I think—­Mon Repos.”

“It is,” said Keith.  “But there is nothing commonplace about the lady.  She iw what I would call a New Woman.”

“Dear me!”

Mr. Heard was alarmed at this picture of his cousin.  He did not altogether approve of New Women.

“She has long ago passed the stage you have in mind, Bishop.  She is newer than that.  The real novelty!  Looks after the baby, and thinks of her husband in India.  I believe I have many points in common with the New Woman.  I often think of people in India.”

“Such a dear little child,” said the Duchess.

“Almost as round as myself,” added Don Francesco.  “There goes the Commissioner!  He is fussing about with the judge, that red-haired man—­do you see, Mr. Heard?—­who limps like Mephistopheles and spits continually.  They say he wants to imprison all the Russians.  Poor folks!  They ought to be sent home; they don’t belong here.  He is looking at us now.  Ha, the animal!  He has the Evil Eye.  He is also scrofulous, rachitic.  And his name is Malipizzo.”