On the intervening day, the Monday, Stanbury had no occupation whatever, and he thought that since he was born no day had ever been so long.  Siena contains many monuments of interest, and much that is valuable in art, having had a school of painting of its own, and still retaining in its public gallery specimens of its school, of which as a city it is justly proud.  There are palaces there to be beaten for gloomy majesty by none in Italy.  There is a cathedral which was to have been the largest in the world, and than which few are more worthy of prolonged inspection.  The town is old, and quaint, and picturesque, and dirty, and attractive, as it becomes a town in Italy to be.  But in July all such charms are thrown away.  In July Italy is not a land of charms to an Englishman.  Poor Stanbury did wander into the cathedral, and finding it the coolest place in the town, went to sleep on a stone step.  He was awoke by the voice of the priests as they began to chant the vespers.  The good-natured Italians had let him sleep, and would have let him sleep till the doors were closed for the night.  At five he dined with Mrs Trevelyan, and then endeavoured to while away the evening thinking of Nora with a pipe in his mouth.  He was standing in this way at the hotel gateway, when, on a sudden, all Siena was made alive by the clatter of an open carriage and four on its way through the town to the railway.  On looking up, Stanbury saw Lord Peterborough in the carriage with a lady whom he did not doubt to be Lord Peterborough’s wife.  He himself had not been recognised, but he slowly followed the carriage to the railway station.  After the Italian fashion, the arrival was three-quarters of an hour before the proper time, and Stanbury had full opportunity of learning their news and telling his own.  They were coming up from Rome, and thought it preferable to take the route by Siena than to use the railway through the Maremma; and they intended to reach Florence that night.

‘And do you think he is really mad?’ asked Lady Peterborough.

’He is undoubtedly so mad as to be unfit to manage anything for himself, but he is not in such a condition that any one would wish to see him put into confinement.  If he were raving mad there would be less difficulty, though there might be more distress.’

A great deal was said about Nora, and both Lord Peterborough and his wife insisted that the marriage should take place at Monkhams.  ’We shall be home now in less than three weeks,’ said Caroline, ’and she must come to us at once.  But I will write to her from Florence, and tell her how we saw you smoking your pipe under the archway.  Not that my husband knew you in the least.’

‘Upon my word no,’ said the husband, ’one didn’t expect to find you here.  Good-bye.  I hope you may succeed in getting him home.  I went to him once, but could do very little.’  Then the train started, and Stanbury went back to Mrs Trevelyan.