It was the month of May, in Italy, at least, the merry month of May,
and Marmion Herbert came forth from the villa Malaspina, and throwing
himself on the turf, was soon lost in the volume of Plato which he
bore with him. He did not move until in the course of an hour he was
roused by the arrival of servants, who brought seats and a table,
when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and Venetia in the portico
of the villa. He rose to greet them, and gave his arm to his wife.
'Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel,' said Herbert, 'is a happy
combination. I am more in love each day with this residence. The
situation is so sheltered, the air so soft and pure, the spot so
tranquil, and the season so delicious, that it realises all my romance
of retirement. As for you, I never saw you look so well; and as for
Venetia, I can scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been our
pale-eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety!'
'Our breakfast is not ready. Let us walk to our sea view,' said Lady
Annabel. 'Give me your book to carry, Marmion.'
'There let the philosopher repose,' said Herbert, throwing the volume
on the turf. 'Plato dreamed of what I enjoy.'
'And of what did Plato dream, papa?' said Venetia.
'He dreamed of love, child.'
Venetia took her father's disengaged arm.
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