“If, after that lecture, you still have some crotchety appreciation left for the works of man, you may be interested, when next you visit the Old Town, to look at some busts and other curiosities of mine.  There is a little Greek bronze I would like to show you, though perhaps we had better not talk too openly about it.  Pray come.  You will extract pleasure from that statuette.  And I will extract pleasure from your company.  Obvious sources of pleasure, aren’t they, Keith?”

It was Count Caloveglia.  He was referring to the Locri Faun, a wonderful antique which had recently been found on his property near the town of that name on the neighbouring mainland, and was about to be secretly smuggled out of Italy.  He smiled in winning fashion as he spoke.  Like everyone else, Denis had fallen under the spell of this attractive and courteous old aristocrat who was saturated to the very marrow in the lore of antiquity.  There was sunshine in his glance—­a lustrous gem—­like grace; one realized from his conversation, from his every word, that he had discarded superfluities of thought and browsed for a lifetime, in leisurely fashion, upon all that purifies and exalts the spirit.  Nothing, one felt, would avail to ruffle that deep pagan content.

“And how,” he continued, addressing Denis, “are your Italian studies progressing?”

“Fairly well, thank you.  My French puts me out a little.  And I can’t yet conjugate properly.”

“That is certainly a drawback,” said Don Francesco, appearing on the scene.  “But don’t let it trouble you,” he added in paternal tones.  “It will come in time.  You are still young.  You are learning Russian, Madame Steynlin?”

“Only a few words.”  She blushed becomingly.  “There are certain sounds, like water being poured into a jug—­neither easy nor pleasant.  I am not as quick as some people.  Mrs. Meadows always speaks Hindustani to her old Sicilian woman.  She comprehends perfectly.”

“So clever these people are, at languages!” said the Duchess.

Marten remarked: 

“I don’t bother to learn Italian.  I talk Latin to them.  They understand all right.”

“And what Latin, Marten!” laughed Denis.  “No wonder they understand.  I’m coming to you on Thursday morning.  Don’t forget.”

“I have not had your public school advantages.  But I manage to get what I want out of them, generally speaking,” and he cast a fiery glance in the direction of Angelina, who returned it over her shoulder, unabashed.  Denis, fortunately, was looking the other way.

“I wish I had enjoyed all your chances,” observed the Duchess, with a little mock-sigh.  “We were so carelessly brought up.  I learnt practically nothing at school.  It is a pity.  Ah, Bishop!  I forgot to tell you.  Such a charming note from your cousin.  She cannot come.  The baby is teething and troublesome in this heat.  You will have to drive up, I’m afraid. . . .  Mr. Keith, I have not yet thanked you for those flowers and the book you sent.  The flowers are quite too lovely.  Look at them!  You are spoiling me—­you really are!  But I don’t think I shall like the book.  Lady Cecilia and her maid and that man, I forget his name—­they do all sorts of things.  They don’t seem to be very nice people.”