She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. “Exactly eleven days,” she said at last.     

       “How long have you been here?”      

       More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. “Close on three weeks.”      

       “Did you know him before you came?”      

       “No.”      

       “Oh! Who is he?”      

       “A native of the place.”      

       The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the carriage.     

       “I understood they met at the hotel.”      

       “It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald’s.”      

       “I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility.”      

       She did not reply.     

       “May I be told his name?”      

       Miss Abbott whispered, “Carella.” But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already.     

       “Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?”      

       “Signor,” said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside.     

       “Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop.”      

       “Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here—my own idea—to give all information which you very naturally—and to see if somehow—please ask anything you like.”      

       “Then how old is he?”      

       “Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe.”      

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