Netta repaired to the drawing-room, and threw herself on to the uncomfortable sofa, struggling with her tears.  For about a fortnight after her marriage she had imagined herself in love with Melrose; then when the personal illusion was gone, the illusion of position and wealth persisted.  He might be queer, and behave queerly in Italy.  But when they returned to England she would find herself the wife of a rich English gentleman, and the gingerbread would once more be gilt.  Alack! a few weeks in a poor London Lodging with no money to spend on the shops which tempted her woman’s cupidity at every step; Edmund’s final refusal, first laughing, then stubborn, to present her to “my devilish relations”; the complete indifference shown to her wishes as to the furnishings of the Tower; these various happenings had at last brought her to an unwelcome commerce with the bare truth.  She had married a selfish eccentric, who had chosen her for a caprice and was now tired of her.  She had not a farthing, nor any art or skill by which to earn one.  Her family was as penniless as herself.  There was nothing for it but to submit.  But her temper and spirits had begun steadily to give way.

Firenze! As she sat in her cheerless drawing-room, hating its ugly shabbiness, and penetrated with the damp chill of the house, there swept through her a vision of the Piazza del Duomo, as she had last seen it on a hot September evening.  A blaze of light—­delicious all-prevailing warmth—­the moist bronzed faces of the men—­the girls with the look of physical content that comes in hot countries with the evening—­the sun flooding with its last gold, now the new marbles of the facciata, now the alabaster and bronze of the Baptistery, and now the moving crowds—­the flowers-baskets—­the pigeons—­

She lifted her eyes with a sobbing breath, and saw the gray cloud-curtain—­the neglected garden—­the solitary pony in the field—­with the shafts of rain striking across it.  Despair stirred in her—­the physical nostalgia of the south.  A happy heart might have silenced the craving nerves; but hers was far from happy.

The door opened.  A head was thrust in—­the head of a fair-haired girl.  There was a pause.

“What do you want?” said Mrs. Melrose, haughtily, determined to assert herself.

Thyrza came in slowly.  She held a bunch of dripping Michaelmas daisies.

“Shall I get a glass for them?  I thowt mebbe you’d like ’em in here.”

Netta thanked her ungraciously.  She remembered having seen the girl the night before, and Anastasia had mentioned her as the daughter of the Contadino.

Thyrza put the flowers in water, Netta watching her in silence; then going into the hall, she returned with a pair of white lace curtains.

“Shall I put ’em up?  It ’ud mebbe be more cheerful.”

Netta looked at them languidly.

“Where do they come from?”

“Mr. Tyson brought ’em from Pengarth.  He thowt you might like ’em for the drawing-room.”