Mrs. Lovatt, her head on one side, looked at Joanna and tried to remember the picture he described. She was not successful, but agreed warmly that Miss Bannerman had struck her from the first as quite Early-Italian. Botticelli, she thought – or was it Luini? – there was surely an angel wonderfully like her in one of Leonardo’s groups?

Unaccustomed to such talk, the young woman felt herself redden furiously. Nor was she spared by Rasponi. His eyes seemed to search her face: then they dwelt on her breast: then sought her feet. When Mrs. Lovatt had invited them both to have tea at her house one day soon, there seemed of a sudden no more to say.

Joanna took leave of them somehow.

IV

In spite of its meagre beginnings the Italian class prospered. There came to be seven students in all. But the original three remained slightly apart from the rest in a vague fellowship of their own; and they greeted each other with a special friendliness.

Lawrence Urquhart was so manifestly glad to be included that Mrs. Lovatt, in the kindness of her heart, invited him also to tea, and she liked the shy eagerness of his acceptance. His oddly featured, dark face pleased her too, now that she came to look at it.

“Have you noticed what engaging eyes the creature has?” she asked Joanna; “they are pretty often turned in your direction.”

But Joanna almost resented words that once would have flattered her. She was absorbed by the emotions Rasponi had aroused.

From the first he had sought her openly, and the whole face of her life was changed.

On the second day of the Italian class she had found him waiting for her by the gate. He had moved to meet her, sweeping off his hat with a gesture she would have found ridiculous in another man. But as he did it, it seemed beautifully to place power in her hands.

“It has cleared after the rain,” he said. “Do you go down the hill and through the park? If so that is my way also. My lodging is on the other side. May I go with you as far as our way lies together?”

Joanna had meant to walk through the park; but suddenly feeling flight to be imperative, she lied, saying that to-day she must take the nearer tram home.

Rasponi gave a faint shrug which combined disappointment with resignation.

“May I come then as far as the terminus with you?” he said.

To this there seemed only one possible reply, and she gave an unskilful assent, trying hard not to appear as raw and school-girlish as she felt. The Southerner appeared to her a creature incapable of awkwardness. Passionately she wished that her upbringing had been more gracious.