The Runaway Visitors by Eleanor Farnes

returned from Firenze, he stormed out on to the terrace where they were finishing their supper.
    ‘What happened to you?’ he asked Victoria without preamble.
    ‘I came home,' she said simply.
    ‘That is obvious, but why couldn’t you have told me?’
    ‘I told Giuseppe. He could have told you.’
    ‘Giuseppe had gone too. You might have had the politeness to inform me of your plans.’
    ‘You might have had the politeness to introduce me to some people. As it was, you were talking to Margarita and I didn’t want to disturb you. ’
    ‘We searched all over the place for you, in the house and the garden, and nobody knew where you were. Another time, if you please, let me know what you’re doing. ’
    ‘If there is another time, I will,’ Victoria said heatedly.
    Charles became aware of the fact that Sebastien and Amanda were watching and listening to this exchange, wide-eyed, surprised but interested. He forced himself to speak more reasonably.
    ‘It was hardly a thoughtful way to behave,’ he said.
    ‘No,’ she agreed, but in a very detached voice, ‘especially after you’d put yourself out for me so nobly all day. Thank you very much for your patience, and for showing me such wonderful things.’
    The words might have been all right, but the tone of voice most certainly was not. Even Sebastien and Amanda recognised the insincerity. Charles and Victoria exchanged a long, cold, almost hostile look, and then Charles turned on his heel and left them. There was a brief silence on the terrace. Then Sebastien said:
    ‘Why do you quarrel, Vicky?’
    ‘We don’t quarrel, Sebastien.’
    ‘You don’t sound very friendly. Why don’t you like each other?’
    It was on the tip of Victoria’s tongue to say: ‘I’m tired, tired, tired of being an unwanted guest in strange people’s houses.’ And this would have been the truth. But she did not want to upset the others, particularly Amanda, when they seemed to be settling down so well; so she did what she was always having to do. She repressed her own feelings for the good of her sister and brother, and made excuses.
    ‘Oh, it’s my fault, I suppose. I’m tired and headachy, and it was rude to rush off and not say anything to him. Naturally he would be angry. It’s only a storm in a tea-cup, Sebastien.’
    She was not sure if she had reassured them. She thought Sebastien was much too sharp to be deceived. She must watch her tongue when she was with Charles.
    When they had eaten supper, Amanda blew out the candles in the tall glasses, because too many moths and insects flew into their flame and were burned. They did not move from the table, however, but sat there lazily looking through the soft night towards Firenze.
    This terrace, given over to any guest who might be staying with Charles, was a constant source of delight and entertainment to Victoria. By day, from the earliest heat haze to the later clearness, she could identify many places around and below: the Duomo and its tall campanile, the Piazza della Signoria, the church where Michelangelo was buried, the Piazzale Michelangelo high on the opposite hills: even, needlelike on his eminence there, the copy of David. By night, it was a fascinating fairyland of coloured lights spread below in the still, warm, peaceful nights; and the hotter the night, the more the lights seemed to twinkle and sparkle. And here they saw fireflies, Amanda for the first time in her life; hundreds of them darting and glimmering in the darkness like will-o’-the-wisps, each making quite a powerful small greenish illumination, lighting up a little space around it. They were all fascinated by these.
    A day or two later, Giorgio came to lunch with them. Victoria and Amanda made a great thing of making the terrace table look festive; they knew they need not worry about the food. And when he arrived, he brought with him his usual bonhomie, his sunny disposition, and a pot of thick cream for Miss Jameson. She responded by bringing out