South Wind | Page 7

with his long words and his--his awful views. He really
does."
"I tell him he is the Antichrist," observed Don Francesco, gravely
shaking his head. "But we shall see! We shall catch him yet."
The Duchess had no idea what the Antichrist was, but she felt sure it
was something not quite nice.
"If I thought he was anything like that, I would never ask him to my
house again. The Antichrist! Ah, talk of angels--"
The person in question suddenly appeared, superintending half a dozen
young gardeners who carried various consignments of plants wrapped
up in straw which had arrived, presumably, by the steamer.
Mr. Keith was older than he looked--incredibly old, in fact, though

nobody could bring himself to believe it; he was well preserved by
means of a complicated system of life, the details of which, he used to
declare, were not fit for publication. That was only his way of talking.
He exaggerated so dreadfully. His face was clean-shaven, rosy, and of
cherubic fulness; his eyes beamed owlishly through spectacles which
nobody had ever seen him take off. But for those spectacles he might
have passed for a well-groomed baby in a soap-advertisement. He was
supposed to sleep in them.
It looked as if Mr. Keith had taken an instantaneous liking to the
bishop.
"Bampopo? Why, of course. I've been there. Years and years ago. Long
before your time, I'm afraid. How is the place getting on? Better roads,
no doubt. And better food, I hope? I was much interested in that little
lake--you know? It seemed to have no outlet. We must talk it over. And
I like those Bulanga people--fine fellows! You liked them too? I'm glad
to hear it. Such a lot of nonsense was talked about their depravity! If
you have nothing better to do, come and lunch to-morrow, can you?
Villa Khismet. Anybody will show you the way. You, Denis," he added,
"you disappoint me. You look like a boy who is fond of flowers. And
yet you have never been to see my cannas, which are the finest in the
kingdom, to say nothing of myself, who am also something of a flower.
A carnivorous orchid, I fancy."
"A virgin lily," suggested Don Francesco.
"I wish I could manage to come," replied Mr. Heard. "But I must look
for a cousin of mine to-morrow; Mrs. Meadows. Perhaps you know
her?"
The priest said:
"We all know Mrs. Meadows. And we all like her. Unfortunately she
lives far, far away; right up there," and he pointed vaguely towards the
sirocco clouds. "In the Old Town, I mean. She dwells like a hermit, all
alone. You can drive up there in a carriage, of course. It is a pity all
these nice people live so far away. There is Count Caloveglia, for

instance, whom I would like to see every day of my life. He talks better
English than I do, the old humbug! He, too, is a hermit. But he will be
down here to-morrow. He never misses the theatricals."
Everybody seems to be a hermit hereabouts, thought Mr. Heard. And
yet this place is seething with people!
Aloud he said:
"So my cousin lives up in the fog. And does it always hang about like
this?"
"Oh dear no!" replied the Duchess. "It goes away sometimes, in the
afternoon. The sirocco, this year, has been most exceptional. Most
exceptional! Don't you think so, Denis?"
"Really couldn't say, Duchess. You know I only arrived last week."
"Most exceptional! Don Francesco will bear me out."
"It blows," said the priest, "when the good God wishes it to blow. He
has been wishing pretty frequently of late."
"I am writing to your cousin," the Duchess remarked, "to ask her to my
small annual gathering after the festival of Saint Dodekanus.
To-morrow, you know. Quite an informal little affair. I may count on
you, Bishop? You'll all come, won't you? You too, Mr. Keith. But no
long words, remember! Nothing about reflexes and preternatural and
things like that. And not a syllable about the Incarnation, please. It
scares me. What's the name of her villa, Denis?"
"Mon Repos. Rather a commonplace name, I think--Mon Repos."
"It is," said Keith. "But there is nothing commonplace about the lady.
She iw what I would call a New Woman."
"Dear me!"
Mr. Heard was alarmed at this picture of his cousin. He did not

altogether approve of New Women.
"She has long ago passed the stage you have in mind, Bishop. She is
newer than that. The real novelty! Looks after the baby, and thinks of
her husband in India. I believe I have many points in common with the
New Woman. I often think of people in India."
"Such a dear little child," said the Duchess.
"Almost as round