and ostrich eggs—­for those super-excellent lobsters and peasant girls for which Nepenthe had been renowned from time immemorial.  He based this scholarly conjecture on the fact that a gazelle horn, identified as belonging to a now extinct Tripolitan species, was actually discovered on the island, while an adolescent female skull of the hypo-dolichocephalous (Nepenthean) type had come to light in some excavations at Benghazi.

It was a pleasant rule.  It ran to the effect that in the course of the forenoon all the inhabitants of Nepenthe, of whatever age, sex, or condition, should endeavour to find themselves in the market-place or piazza—­a charming square, surrounded on three sides by the principal buildings of the town and open, on the fourth, to a lovely prospect over land and sea.  They were to meet on this spot; here to exchange gossip, make appointments for the evening, and watch the arrival of new-comers to their island.  An admirable rule!  For it effectively prevented everybody from doing any kind of work in the morning; and after luncheon, of course, you went to sleep.  It was delightful to be obliged, by iron convention, to stroll about in the bright sunshine, greeting your friends, imbibing iced drinks, and letting your eye stray down to the lower level of the island with its farmhouses embowered in vineyards; or across the glittering water towards the distant coastline and its volcano; or upwards, into those pinnacles of the higher region against whose craggy ramparts, nearly always, a fleet of snowy sirocco-clouds was anchored.  For Nepenthe was famous not only for its girls and lobsters, but also for its south wind.

As usual at this hour the market-place was crowded with folks.  It was a gay throng.  Priests and curly-haired children, farmers, fishermen, citizens, a municipal policeman or two, brightly dressed women of all ages, foreigners in abundance—­they moved up and down, talking, laughing, gesticulating.  Nobody had anything particular to do; such was the rule.

The Russian sect was well represented.  They were religious enthusiasts, ever increasing in numbers and led by their Master, the divinely inspired Bazhakuloff, who was then living in almost complete seclusion on the island.  They called themselves the “Little White Cows,” to mark their innocence of worldly affairs, and their scarlet blouses, fair hair, and wondering blue eyes were quite a feature of the place.  Overhead, fluttering flags and wreaths of flowers, and bunting, and brightly tinted paper festoons—­an orgy of colour, in honour of the saint’s festival on the morrow.

The Duchess, attired in black, with a black and white sunshade, and a string of preposterous amethysts nestling in the imitation Val of her bosom, was leaning on the arm of an absurdly good-looking youth whom she addressed as Denis.  Everyone called him Denis or Mr. Denis.  People used his surname as little as possible.  It was Phipps.

With a smile for everyone, she moved more deliberately than the rest, and used her fan rather more frequently.  She knew that the sirocco was making stealthy inroads upon her carefully powdered cheeks; she wanted to look her best on the arrival of Don Francesco, who was to bring some important message from the clerical authorities of the mainland anent her forthcoming reception into the Roman Catholic Church.  He was her friend.  Soon he would be her confessor.