Her eyes were cast down, but she was forcing herself to speak quite cheerfully.

“You see, mother, my knowing English is a great advantage.  If we were to go to one of the towns on the Riviera, like Nice or Mentone, where so many English families are, one might get pupils who would want to learn English songs as well as Italian and German—­”

“Yes, yes, Natalushka; but I am not going to have you slave for me.  The little allowance that my cousins send me will do very well for us two, though you will not get so fine dresses.  Then, you see, Natalushka, Mentone or Nice would be a dear place to live in.”

“Very well, mother,” said the girl, with the same apparent cheerfulness, “I will go down and post my letter, and at the same time get the loan of a guide book.  Then we shall study the maps, and pick out a nice, quiet, remote little place, where we can live—­and forget.”

The last two words were uttered to herself as she opened the door and went out.  She sighed a little as she went down the staircase—­that was all; she was thinking of things very far away.  She passed into the hall, and went to the bureau for some postage-stamps.  As she stood there, some one, unperceived, came up to her:  it was Calabressa.

“Little daughter,” said he, in a trembling voice.

She uttered a slight cry, and shrunk back.

“Little daughter,” said he, holding out his hand.

But some strange instinct possessed her.  She could not avoid touching his hand—­or the tips of his fingers, rather—­for one brief second; then she turned away from him with an involuntary shudder, and went back through the hall, her head bent down.  Calabressa stood looking after her for a moment or two, then he turned and left the hotel.

He walked quickly:  there were tears running down his face.  He looked neither to the right nor to the left; he was talking in a broken voice to himself; he repeated again and again, “No, she shall not turn away from me.  She will be sorry for that soon.  She will say she should not have crushed the heart of her old friend Calabressa.”

He walked out to Posilipo.  Near the villa where he had formerly sought the representatives of the Council he passed an old woman who was selling fruit by the roadside.  She glanced up at him, and said,

“The door is closed, signore.”

“The door must be opened, good mother,” said he, scarcely regarding her as he hurried on.

Arrived in the garden of the villa, his summons brought out to the entrance of the grotto the Secretary Granaglia, who somewhat impatiently told him that it was quite impossible that any member of the Council should see him.

“And no doubt it is about that Lind affair?”

“Indirectly only,” Calabressa said.  “No, it concerns myself mostly.”

“Quite enough time, the Council think, has been given to the Lind affair.  I can tell you, my friend, there are more important matters stirring.  Now, farewell; I am wanted within.”