They drove away from the house, Francis with a backward glance of regret.

The striped sun-blinds had been lowered over all the windows, thrushes and blackbirds were twittering on the lawn, the air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, a boatman was busy with the boats.

Out beyond, through the trees, the river wound its placid way.
"Quite a little paradise," Lady Cynthia murmured.
"Delightful," her companion assented.

"I suppose great wealth has its obligations, but why any human being should rear such a structure as what he calls his Borghese villa, when he has a charming place like that to live in, I can't imagine." Her silence was significant, almost purposeful.

She unwound the veil from her motoring turban, took it off altogether and attached it to the cushions of the car with a hatpin.
"There," she said, leaning back, "you can now gaze upon a horrible example to the young women of to-day.