PLAIN FRANCES MOWBRAY.
CHAPTER III.
Lady Frances only got back from the garden on the Guidecca just in time for dinner. The Colonel had already arrived, and had brought her a great bunch of poppies and wild oats as an amende for his desertion. He was in high spirits, laughing over the proceedings of the afternoon, which, it seemed, had been fruitful of amusing incident, though, excepting that some one in making tea had spilt hot water over somebody else's feet, his sister was unable to make out any one in particular. She herself was even more silent than usual that evening, her thoughts being still in the garden by the Redentore, and with her old friend there. Fortunately Madame Facchino had not failed duly to put in an appearance, and was as ready as usual to supply every possible social requirement, filling up all awkward pauses with her indomitable and invaluable volubility.
There was another visitor, a distant cousin of the Mowbrays, the wife of a Lincolnshire clergyman, who was staying at a pension, and who had been asked that evening to dinner from a feeling of family obligation. This lady had only lately arrived in Venice, and had a great many complaints to make – so many, that after dinner Lady Frances found it as much as she could do to listen, and endeavour, as far as she could, to respond to them. "Did it generally rain as much as it had done during the last week? she wished to know. She had been out in a boat all yesterday, and had twice had to come and change her stockings, the water having come in through the back of the hood. Surely dear Frances did not find a gondola a convenient equipage in bad weather? And was it really necessary to pay those dreadful old men with crooks, who stood upon the steps, and pretended to help one out? One of them had insisted upon giving her his hands yesterday, though she had tried hard to avoid touching them, – such dreadfully dirty hands – Frances couldn't imagine how dirty – quite disgusting; and ear-rings, too – actually ear-rings in his ears! Surely it could not be right to encourage such mendacity? Her husband had made such very strict rules about it in their parish, the beggars had been very troublesome there at first, but now, she was thankful to say, there were none – not one. It couldn't be right to encourage in other countries what you wouldn't in your own, could it – not logically? Of course, their being Roman Catholics, poor creatures, made a difference; but unless some one set an example, how were they ever to improve? That was what she wanted to know. Didn't dear Frances quite agree with her?"
While these complaints were being poured into the sister's ears at one end of the room, Madame Facchino was entertaining the brother by singing to him at the other. It was a large room so large that much of the sound and most of the sense was lost in the transit across it. The music began at the pianoforte, but after a while Madame Facchino duly produced her mandolin, and the two adjourned to the balcony, which the warmth of the
