Hilda arrived in good time on Thursday morning, in a nimble two-seater car, with her suitcase strapped firmly behind. She looked as demure and maidenly as ever, but she had the same will of her own. She had the very hell of a will of her own, as her husband had found out. But the husband was now divorcing her. Yes, she even made it easy for him to do that, though she had no lover. For the time being, she was “off” men. She was very well content to be quite her own mistress: and mistress of her two children, whom she was going to bring up “properly,” whatever that may mean.

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.”

Connie became insistent.

Hilda bent her Minerva-like head in silence. Then she looked up.