Connie was only allowed a suitcase, also. But she had sent on a trunk to her father, who was going by train. No use taking a car to Venice. And Italy much too hot to motor in, in July. He was going comfortably by train. He had just come down from Scotland.

So, like a demure arcadian field-marshall, Hilda arranged the material part of the journey. She and Connie sat in the upstairs room, chatting.

“But, Hilda!” said Connie, a little frightened. “I want to stay near here tonight. Not here: near here!”

Hilda fixed her sister with grey, inscrutable eyes. She seemed so calm: and she was so often furious.

“Where, near here?” she asked softly.

“Well, you know I love somebody, don’t you?”

“I gathered there was something.”

“Well, he lives near here, and I want to spend this last night with him. I must! I’ve promised.”