2.7.

It was in fact Vivaldi who, putting aside the knot of idlers about the chaise, stepped forward at Odo’s approach.  The philosopher’s countenance was perturbed, his travelling-coat spattered with mud, and his daughter, hooded and veiled, clung to him with an air of apprehension that smote Odo to the heart.  He caught a blush of recognition beneath her veil; and as he drew near she raised a finger to her lip and faintly shook her head.

The mute signal reassured him.  “I see, sir,” said he, turning courteously to Vivaldi, “that you are in a bad plight, and I hope that I or my carriage may be of service to you.”  He ventured a second glance at Fulvia, but she had turned aside and was inspecting the wheel of the chaise with an air of the most disheartening detachment.

Vivaldi, who had returned Odo’s greeting without any sign of ill-will, bowed slightly and seemed to hesitate a moment.  “Our plight, as you see,” he said, “is indeed a grave one; for the wheel has come off our carriage and my driver here tells me there is no smithy this side Vercelli, where it is imperative we should lie tonight.  I hope, however,” he added, glancing down the road, “that with all the traffic now coming and going we may soon be overtaken by some vehicle that will carry us to our destination.”

He spoke calmly, but it was plain some pressing fear underlay his composure, and the nature of the emergency was but too clear to Odo.

“Will not my carriage serve you?” he hastily rejoined.  “I am for Vercelli, and if you will honour me with your company we can go forward at once.”

Fulvia, during this exchange of words, had affected to be engaged with the luggage, which lay in a heap beside the chaise; but at this point she lifted her head and shot a glance at her father from under her black travelling-hood.

Vivaldi’s constraint increased.  “This, sir,” said he, “is a handsome offer, and one for which I thank you; but I fear our presence may incommode you and the additional weight of our luggage perhaps delay your progress.  I have little fear but some van or waggon will overtake us before nightfall; and should it chance otherwise,” he added with a touch of irresistible pedantry, “why, it behoves us to remember that we shall be none the worse off, since the sage is independent of circumstances.”

Odo could hardly repress a smile.  “Such philosophy, sir, is admirable in principle, but in practice hardly applicable to a lady unused to passing her nights in a rice-field.  The region about here is notoriously unhealthy and you will surely not expose your daughter to the risk of remaining by the roadside or of finding a lodging in some peasant’s hut.”

Vivaldi drew himself up.  “My daughter,” said he, “has been trained to face graver emergencies with an equanimity I have no fear of putting to the touch—­’the calm of a mind blest in the consciousness of its virtue’; and were it not that circumstances are somewhat pressing—­” he broke off and glanced at Cantapresto, who was fidgeting about Odo’s carriage or talking in undertones with the driver of the chaise.