“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt. 

 “One doesn’t come to Italy for niceness,” was the retort; “one comes for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!” bowing right and left. “Look at that adorable wine-cart! How the driver stares at us, dear, simple soul!” 

 So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence, short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten, though without a kitten’s grace. It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and so cheerful; and a blue military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears, only increased the sense of festivity. 

 “Buon giorno! Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy: you will never repent of a little civility to your inferiors. That is the true democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you’re shocked.” 

 “Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out. My father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland.” 

 “I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.” 

 “Oh, please—! If my father was alive, I am sure he would vote Radical again now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the glass over our front door was broken last election, and Freddy is sure it was the Tories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp.” 

 “Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?” 

 “No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald.” 

 Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot. 

 “What a delightful part; I know it so well. It is full of the very nicest people. Do you know Sir Harry Otway—a Radical if ever there was?” 

 “Very well indeed.” 

 “And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?” 

 “Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!” 

 Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you have property in Surrey?” 

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