XV

After the aviation week Vanno Della Robbia still had the excuse of

waiting for Prince Angelo and his bride. It was as well therefore to be

at Monte Carlo as anywhere else in the neighbourhood of the villa they

would occupy at Cap Martin.

They had been detained in England by a "command" visit to royalty, but

would soon come to the Riviera. In a letter Angelo asked his younger

brother to go over to Cap Martin and look at the house, which Vanno did:

and prolonging his excursion to the ruined, historic convent on the Cap,

met Miss Grant strolling there with Jim Schuyler and Dick Carleton. He

passed near enough to hear that Schuyler was telling the legend of the

place: how the nuns played a joke on the men of Roquebrune, the

appointed guardians of their safety, by ringing the alarm bell to see if

the soldiers of the castle town on the hill would indeed turn out to the

rescue. How the very night after the men had run down in vain, the bell

pealed out again, and the guardians remained snugly in their beds, only

to hear next day that this time the alarm had been real. Saracens had

sacked the convent, carried off all the young and pretty nuns, and

murdered the old ones.

Schuyler and Carleton both bowed to Vanno, whom they had met several

times during the "flying week" at Nice, and Schuyler interrupted his

story long enough to say to Mary, "That's Prince Giovanni Della Robbia,

who invented the parachute Rongier tested so successfully the other day.

Dick met him once in Egypt. He goes star-gazing in the desert, I

believe, consorting with Arabs, and learning all sorts of Eastern

_patois_."

Neither Vanno (who caught the sound of his name in passing) nor Schuyler

guessed the half-reluctant interest with which Mary heard the name of

her sulky neighbour at the Hôtel de Paris, and learned those few details

of his life.

Vanno had been more than once to Roquebrune since the first day, and

knew that the curé had called twice upon Miss Grant, without finding her

at home. He knew, too, that the priest had received no visit from her in

return; nor had he again seen or heard of the "strange lady" who had

come to question him about Prince Angelo.

Vanno was deeply disappointed at the failure of his plan, and feared

that Mary wished to avoid knowing the priest; otherwise she might at

least have gone to church at Roquebrune. She made other excursions, when

she could tear herself from the Casino, on irresistibly bright

afternoons. Not only had he seen her at Cap Martin, but in Nice and in

Mentone; once, motoring into Italy with people whose faces were strange

to Vanno, and unpromising; and with the same party again in the

beautiful garden at Beaulieu, where it is fashionable to drink tea and

watch the sunset. But she did not make time to go to Roquebrune, and

show a little graceful gratitude for the curé's kindly interest.

The desire grew stronger in Vanno to speak to her, to know something of

her besides the perhaps deceiving beauty of her face, but he clung in

firmness or obstinacy to the resolve of which he had told his friend. He

knew that he could not help her as the curé might, and secretly he

feared himself. Once the ice was broken in making her acquaintance, he

was not sure that he could still be strong.

But one afternoon he had been taking a long walk alone, as was his

custom every day. Coming down from a Ligurian fort, by an old mule track

that ended on the upper Corniche road, he saw an automobile which had

stopped at the foot of the path. A girl in a rose-red motor-bonnet and a

moleskin coat was standing up in the car, her eyes raised, her chin

lifted like a flower tilted in its stem, intent on something which Vanno

could not see. The girl was Miss Grant, and Vanno's heart gave a bound,

then seemed to contract at sight of her, so near him and alone.

The automobile was drawn up so close to the descending mule path that

Vanno saw it would be impossible to pass unless the chauffeur started

the engine and moved the car on a little; but rather than this should be

necessary, he halted abruptly a few yards above the level of the road.

The rattle of footsteps on rough cobbles roused Mary from her study of

the thing which Vanno could not see. She glanced up, expecting some

peasant who would want to pass her car. At sight of the Prince halted on

the path and looking down into her uplifted face, she blushed. It was

just such a blush as had dyed her cheeks painfully the night when he

frowned in answer to her friendly smile; and Vanno knew that she was

thinking of it. The remorse he had suffered then, when too late, came

back to him. If she had not blushed now in the same childlike, hurt way,

he was sure that he could have kept to his resolution not to speak. He

would simply have stood still, gazing away into distance until she was

ready to go on; or at most he would have said with cool politeness,

"Please don't let me disturb you. I am in no hurry to pass." But in an

instant it rushed over him that here was his chance to atone for an

unkindness, and that if he did not quickly seize it he would be sorry

all the rest of his life. Besides, it flashed into his mind that by

speaking of a certain thing he could easily lead up to the subject of

the curé. He wanted very much to know whether she attached any

importance to the visits of the priest.

Vanno took off his hat to Mary, bowing gravely. He had guessed her

reason for bringing the car to rest at this place, and it gave him his

excuse. A step or two farther down the mule path brought him near enough

to speak without raising his voice. "I think," he said, "you must have

stopped here to look at the marble tablet set in the rock. Will you let

me tell you something about it--unless you know its history already?"

"I thank you. I don't know. I was wondering about it." Mary stammered a

little, blushing very deeply, partly with embarrassment--though she was

not embarrassed when other strangers spoke to her--partly in surprise at

hearing the "Roman Prince" speak English like an Englishman. "Please do

tell me."

Before he spoke, she had given a quick order to the chauffeur to move on

and leave the end of the mule path free. Now the heart of the motor

began to beat, and the car rolled a few feet farther on. Vanno came out

into the thick white dust of the much-travelled road, and he and Mary

could both look up to the tablet he had mentioned.

It was an oblong piece of marble, set high on the face of gray rock

which on one side walled the upper Corniche, Napoleon's road. On it was

the curious inscription: "Remember eternal at my heart. February, 1881."

"It is so strange," Mary said, trying to seem at ease, and not show the

slightest emotion. It was ridiculous to feel emotion! Yet she could not

help being absurdly happy, because this man who had snubbed her once and

apparently disapproved her always was speaking to her of his own accord,

in kindness.

"'Remember eternal at my heart?' It's like the English of a person not

English. But why did he not have the words put in his own language,

which he knew?"

"That is what everybody wonders," Vanno said, finding it as difficult as

Mary found it, not to show that this conversation was of immense,

exciting importance. "It puzzled me so much when I first came this way

that I couldn't get it out of my head. I asked a friend who has lived

for years not many miles away, if he could tell me what it meant."

"And could he tell you?"

"He told me a story which he believed but would not vouch for. Only, a

very old inhabitant told it to him. It appeals to me as true. It must be

true." A new warmth stole into Vanno's voice as he spoke. They had both

been looking up at the tablet on the rock, but as that thrill like a

chord on a violin struck her ear, Mary turned to him. Their eyes met, as

they had so often met, but to-day there was no coldness in Vanno's, or

hurt pride in Mary's.

"Can you think of any reason for the bad English?" he asked. He longed

to hear what she would say.

She thought for a minute. "Could it be," she reflected aloud, "that the

person who had the tablet put up associated this place with some one who

was English--maybe a woman, if he was a man--and so he wanted to use her

language, not his own?"

"You have guessed right!" exclaimed Vanno, boyishly delighted with her

intuition. "He was an Italian. He loved an English girl." The romantic

dark eyes which had so often burned with gloomy fire in looking at her

burned with a different flame for an instant; then quickly, as if with a

common impulse, the girl and the man tore their looks apart. "They met

here on the Riviera," Vanno went on, not quite steadily. "It was at this

spot they first found out that they loved each other, according to the

story of my friend."

He paused involuntarily. His mouth was dry. When he began to explain the

tablet, he had not realized what it would be like to tell the story to

this girl at this place. It was as if some other voice, talking above

his with his words, gave a meaning and an emphasis which must be

unmistakable to her. It was hard to go on, for with each sentence he

would surely stumble deeper into difficulty. Yet the silence was

electrical. Unsaid things seemed rustling in ambush. He dared not look

again at Mary, and he felt that she dared not look at him. But it was

necessary to go on, and he took up the narrative clumsily, fearing to

tangle the thread.

"The Italian asked the girl to marry him--here, where we stand. And they

were engaged. But in a few weeks or months something happened. My friend

is not sure whether she died, or whether some one came between them. He

is sure only that they parted. And afterward the man had this tablet put

up to mark the spot where he had lived his happiest hour."

"It is a sad story," Mary said.

"Yes. It is sad. But it is beautiful, too. He was faithful. 'Remember

eternal at my heart.'"

"Perhaps those were the very words he spoke to her here, when--they

loved each other and he was trying to talk in her language."

"I thought of that, too. It's almost certain he said these words, to

assure her that he could never forget this place."

"No one else can forget, who knows the story. It makes the tablet seem

haunted."

"Would you be afraid to see the ghosts of those lovers?" Vanno asked.

"No," Mary answered. "For if he too is dead--and 1881 is quite a long

time ago!--they must be happy together now. Happy ghosts would try to

give happiness to others."

Instantly the sentiment was uttered Mary regretted it. She feared that

the man might think she associated herself with him in some vague hope

of happiness. "I trust at least," she hurried on, "that the story of the

lovers is true."

"It was the curé of Roquebrune who told it to me. He thinks it more

probable than two or three other tales," Vanno said, speaking slowly, to

impress the name of his informant upon the girl. "The curé is a most

interesting man. Perhaps you've met him?" He asked this question

doubtfully, lest Mary should guess that it was to him she owed the

curé's visits; but she was unsuspicious.

"No. He called on me when I was out. I don't know why he came," she

said. She looked a little guilty, because she would have gone up to the

church of Roquebrune after the second call if she had not been afraid

that the curé had been sent to see her by some one at home who had found

out that she was on the Riviera. Vanno, misunderstanding her change of

expression, said no more, though he had begun his story with the

intention of leading up to this. They parted with polite thanks from

Mary for his information, thanks which seemed banal, a strange

anti-climax coming after the story of the lovers. Yet they went away

from one another with an aftermath of their first unreasoning happiness

still lingering in their hearts. That night at dinner they bowed to each

other slightly; and during the week that followed before Christmas eve,

sometimes Vanno almost believed in the girl; sometimes he lost hope of

her, and was plunged from his unreasoning happiness to the dark depths

of a still more unreasoning despair. But he knew that she thought of

him. He saw it in her eyes, or in the turn of her head if she

ostentatiously looked away from him. And he did not know whether he were

glad or sorry, for he saw no good that could come of what he began to

call his infatuation.

The morning of Christmas eve arrived, and with it a telegram to say that

Angelo and his bride Marie were delayed again until the eve of New

Year's Day, the great fête of France. Vanno was disappointed, for he had

expected them that night, and would have liked to be with them on

Christmas. He resolved to invite the curé to dine with him on Christmas

night; and meanwhile, strolling on the Casino terrace in the hope of

seeing Mary, he ran across Jean Rongier, the airman, the young French

baron who had achieved a sensational success at Nice for the new Della

Robbia parachute. On the strength of this feat the two had become good

friends, and Vanno had been up several times in Rongier's Bleriot

monoplane.

"A favour, _mon ami_," Rongier began as they met. "I was on the point of

calling at your hotel, to ask it of you. Go with me to-night to a dance

on board the big yacht _White Lady_, that you can see down there in the

harbour."

"Many thanks, but no!" laughed Vanno. "I haven't danced since I was

twenty; and even if I had I don't know _White Lady's_ owner."

"That is nothing," said Rongier. "Nobody knows him, but every one is

going--that is, all the men we know are going; and you will go, to

please me."

"I'd do a good deal to please you, but not that," Vanno persisted.

"If I tell you a lady whom I am anxious--particularly anxious--to

please, will be angry with me if you refuse? She makes it a point that I

bring you."

"That's a different matter," said Vanno good-naturedly. "I suppose she

doesn't make it a point for me to stay through the whole evening?"

"You can settle that with her," Rongier reassured him. "I thought you

wouldn't fail me. She's heard about your blue comet and your yellow

desert, and your new parachute, and has probably mixed them all up; but

the result is that she wants to meet you."

"Very kind. I wish I could do the comet and the desert the same credit

you do the parachute. But who is 'She'?"

"Miss Holbein, the daughter of the yacht's owner. English people here, I

understand, won't know her father because he was once an I. D. B. and is

now a money-lender; but thank heaven we who have Latin blood in our

veins are neither snobs nor hypocrites. By the way, Holbein called some

fellow at the Casino a 'snob' the other night, and the man returned, 'If

I were a snob, I wouldn't know you.' Holbein thought it so smart he goes

about repeating the story against himself, which proves he balances his

millions with a sense of humour. Miss Holbein is handsome. Jewesses can

be the most beautiful women in the world, don't you think? and though

she is snubbed by the _grandes dames_ here and perhaps elsewhere, I

notice that snubs generally come home to roost. She will have all the

millions one day, and she is clever enough to pay people back in their

own coin--not coin that she would miss in spending. And she is clever

enough to be Madame la Baronne Rongier, wife to the idol of the French

people, if she thinks it worth while! Just for the moment, though, I am

on my probation. I dare refuse her nothing she wants, and she wants

Prince Giovanni Della Robbia at her mother's dance."

"That unworthy person is at her service," Vanno said, bored at the

prospect, but willing to please his friend.

* * * * * * *

Mrs. Ernstein and Dodo Wardropp were eagerly looking forward to the

Christmas eve dance on board _White Lady_. Mrs. Collis and Lottie had

been looking forward to it too; and after they went from the villa they

wrote almost humbly to ask Mrs. Holbein if they might still come, though

they were no longer with her friend Lady Dauntrey. To their joy and

surprise she had written back cordially to say she hoped most certainly

they would come, and bring friends. She had seemed far from cordial to

them or anybody else when lunching at the Villa Bella Vista on the

unfortunate occasion of the dish-towel; indeed, she had been lymphatic,

and had scarcely troubled to speak to any one; but now the Collises

thought they had misjudged her.

This was the first entertainment for which Lady Dauntrey had contrived

to secure invitations for her guests; and Dodo, Mrs. Ernstein, and the

Collises had been delightedly telling every one they knew (not a large

number) that they were going to the _White Lady_ dance. It was a

pleasure at last to be able to tell of something happening to them which

might excite envy. So far, they had felt that as the Dauntreys' guests

they were being pitied or laughed at by those they would have liked to

impress.

There was no doubt that the Holbeins, being enormously rich, would do

everything very well; and Lady Dauntrey remarked more than once that

Mrs. Holbein had told her people were "simply crawling" for invitations.

Not till the last moment did Eve inform any one that she was taking Miss

Grant, for she had not yet mentioned speaking to her the other day at

the Casino. It was arranged that, the villa being much nearer than the

Hôtel de Paris to the yacht, Mary should call for her chaperon;

therefore, as Eve had said nothing, it was a great surprise when the

house party had assembled in the drawing-room, putting on their wraps

and buttoning their gloves, to hear the "sulky codfish" announce Miss

Grant.

Mary walked into the dull drab room in a dress which appeared to be made

entirely of fine gold tissue, her hair banded with a wreath of diamond

laurel leaves, which made her look extraordinarily Greek and classic.

No one else, not even the rich Mrs. Ernstein, had a dress which compared

to this, and Mary's entrance was received in shocked silence by the

ladies, with the exception of Eve, who greeted her "mascotte" warmly,

with compliments.

Lady Dauntrey's efforts to make the drawing-room more habitable before

Mary saw it would have seemed almost pathetic to any one who understood;

and they had seemed pathetic to Lord Dauntrey. He was more or less in

her confidence, and still under her spell. It was for him, she had said,

that she wanted to secure a new paying-guest who had plenty of money to

put into the "system," and who loved gambling better than anything

else. He had helped Eve and the codfish decorate both drawing-room and

dining-room for Christmas, in order that Mary might take a fancy to the

place, and consent to come as a boarder. There were a good many pine

branches pinned on to curtains and stuck into huge, ugly Japanese vases,

a few wreaths hiding damp or dirty patches on the wall. Crookedly hung

pictures had been straightened; some Christmas magazines were lying

about, and bowls of chrysanthemums relieved the room of its wonted

gloom. It really had almost a festive air; and after her rather lonely

life at the hotel, the place and the people seemed pleasant to Mary. She

was so enchanted with a little shivering marmoset, which Miss Wardropp

had bought of a wandering monkey-merchant in the Galerie Charles Trois,

that Dodo forgave her the wonderful dress and filet, if she did not

quite forgive Lady Dauntrey the surprise. Then Mrs. Ernstein produced

two trained sparrows, which she called her "mosquito hawks" and took

with her everywhere. Mary told them both about an adorable blue frog

named Hilda which she had bought at a Mentone china-shop; and in

comparing pets the atmosphere cleared. They all started off in cabs for

the harbour and _White Lady's_ slip, where a motor-launch from the yacht

would meet them; and Mary made friends with Dom Ferdinand, who was the

only man in the carriage with her and Lady Dauntrey.

Arriving at the slip they found Major Norwood and the Maharajah of

Indorwana also waiting for the launch, with Captain Hannaford; and Mary

introduced all three to the party from the Villa Bella Vista, whom they

did not yet know. Then came Dick Carleton, alone, for Schuyler had

firmly refused to sacrifice himself on the altar of friendship, and half

a dozen smart, merry little officers of the Chasseurs Alpins, stationed

at Mentone, and up at the lonely fort on Mont Agel. By this time it was

late, for Lady Dauntrey wished to make a dramatic entry after most of

the guests had already come on board, and the wish was more than

granted. She, with her gorgeous widow and the two girls, attended by

fifteen men, burst upon the crowd, who, for the best of reasons, had not

yet begun to dance. Besides Mrs. Holbein and her daughter, there was not

another woman present until the party from the Villa Bella Vista

appeared.

Seldom could there have been a more curious scene, upon a magnificently

appointed yacht, decorated for a dance. Already, when Lady Dauntrey and

her impromptu train arrived, forty or fifty men were assembled on a deck

screened in by flags and masses of palms and flowers. A Hungarian band

imported from Paris was playing, not dance music, for that would have

been a mockery in the circumstances, but gay marches and lively airs to

cheer drooping spirits. Of all the women invited (some of whom Mrs.

Holbein scarcely knew) only Lady Dauntrey and her house-party had

accepted, for word had gone forth from the Elect that, in good American

slang, the notorious Jew money-lender and his common wife were "the

limit." As for the girl, she did not count, except in cash. Now, when it

was too late, Mrs. Holbein desperately regretted that she had slighted

some of her old friends, who had once been good enough for her to know,

and who would have flocked to her dance gladly. There were plenty of

them scattered about between San Remo and Nice, who were at this moment

feeling aggrieved by the Holbeins' neglect. If only they had been

bidden, these contemptuously amused men would have had partners, even

though the list of names in the society papers might have excited some

derision. Mrs. Holbein had aimed high and overshot the mark. The result

was tragic. And though her vulgar nature, writhing in humiliation,

judged others by itself and believed all to be laughing maliciously,

there were some who could not laugh.

Vanno Della Robbia detested vulgar people, and had disliked the idea of

coming to the dance; but now that he was here, on their beautiful yacht,

he pitied the wretched Holbeins so intensely that he felt physically

ill. The man, with fiercely shining eyes and hawk nose, hunching up his

round shoulders as he clenched and unclenched his pudgy hands, deeply

hidden in his pockets, was horribly pathetic to Vanno, who tried not to

see the little bright beads that oozed out of the tight-skinned

forehead. Even more pathetic was the woman, blazing in 20,000

diamond-power, haggard under her rouged smile, her large uncovered back

and breast heaving, her fat, ungloved hands mere bunches of fingers and

rings. The girl did not so much matter. She was young and handsome, her

moustache as yet but the shadow of a coming event; and the affair was

not so tragic to her since she had the attention of Rongier and plenty

of other men. But Vanno had seen such faces and figures as those of Sam

Holbein and his wife in dusky shops at Constantine. They had been

happier and more at home there.

Disgustedly he knew that it comforted the woman to be talking with

Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, yet he gave the comfort and spread it

thickly for her by showing deference, listening patiently to desperate

boastings of her splendid possessions: her house in Park Lane, the

castle "Sam" had bought in Fifeshire. "I am a county lady _there_, I can

tell you, Prince!" she said, with a giggle that just escaped being a

sob. "I hope you will come to my ball at Dornock Castle next August, in

the Games Week, your Highness; all the men in kilts and mostly with

titles; our own family pipers, never less than six, playing for the

reels. My daughter has taken lessons, and I tell you she can give points

to some of those Calvanistic cats with Macs to their names, and a lot of

rot about clans, who think just because they're Scotch they're

_everybody_. Why, some of the old nobility up there have got such poor,

degenerated taste in decoration, they have nasty plaid carpets and

curtains all over their houses. _We_ had a firm from Paris send their

best men to do our castle over new from cellar to attic, Empire and

Louis. It's an example to some of those stuck-up Scotch earls and their

prim countesses. If _I_ had a title I'd live up to it!"

"You seem to do very well without," Vanno said.

"Well, we like to show them what's what. And I shouldn't wonder if my

daughter would attract one into the family some day. But talking of

titles, here comes the Viscount and Viscountess Dauntrey and that

gentleman friend of theirs who may be a king any minute. There's a

foreign Marquis and an Englishman with them, and some pretty girls, so

maybe things will begin to wake up a bit."

Vanno turned in the direction of her glittering eyes, and saw Mary Grant

approaching with a large party; three over-dressed, over-painted,

over-jewelled women; the Maharajah of Indorwana, scintillating with

decorations; six French officers in uniform, and eight other men. The

little brown Indian royalty was walking with Mary, clinging closely to

her side, seeing no one but her, and trying ostentatiously to "cut out"

Dom Ferdinand, who kept almost equally near on the other side. Mary, as

she waited for Lady Dauntrey to be boisterously greeted by host and

hostess, smiled gently and softly from one man to the other, as if she

wished to be kind to both, and was pleased with their attentions.

So, indeed, she was pleased. It was nice to be admired. Men were amusing

novelties in her life. She thought them most entertaining creatures, and

quaintly different in all their ways from women. She was charmed with

her own dress and the lovely filet of diamond laurel leaves which she

had bought at the shop of the nice jeweller who was so kind. She had

smiled and nodded to her image in the mirror before leaving the hotel,

as Cinderella might have smiled; for this was her first ball. Never had

she been to a dance except those got up among a few young people after

dinner at Lady MacMillan's, years ago when she was only a schoolgirl,

and the convent dances where the pupils had learnt to waltz together,

and one of the dear sisters had played the old piano in the schoolroom.

Mary was wearing a good deal of jewellery, because she loved it, and had

never had any before. Much of her winnings she had given away. Any one

who asked, and made up a pitiful tale, could have something from her.

The latest story going about in connection with her reckless and

unreasoned generosity was of what she had done for a band of strolling

Italian musicians. She had encouraged them to bleat and bawl their

wornout songs in wornout voices, under the windows of the Hôtel de

Paris, until it had been politely intimated to her that the shriekings

and tinklings were a nuisance. Mary, who loved and understood good

music, had enjoyed these disastrous efforts no more than others had, but

her heart had been full of pity for the battered little band. She could

not bear to have their feelings hurt; and when at last she had to tell

them that they must sing no more under her window, she gave the leader

and his wife a _mille_ note each to buy new instruments and costumes

for the entire company. The man and woman had been seen bursting into

tears, and pressing garlic kisses on Mary's hands, apparently against

her inclination. Thus the story had got about, with many others of her

eccentric and exaggerated charities. But beyond what she did for all who

were in need, or made her think they were, she had more money than she

knew what to do with for herself; and much of it she had spent with the

jeweller in the Galerie Charles Trois, who was openly her slave.

If he offered her beautiful things at prices which gave him no margin of

profit, she in her ignorance of values did not know that the jewels were

surprisingly cheap. She bought of this man because he was kind, because

he begged her to come to his place, because he seemed to enjoy showing

her lovely ornaments, and knew always, as if by instinct, exactly what

was most suitable and becoming. But gossip said that the jeweller made

presents to the eccentric and beautiful girl whose career at Monte Carlo

was an interesting mystery to every one. Vanno had heard these stories

from Rongier, before he could find presence of mind to cut them short by

turning to another subject: and seeing her to-night, dazzling with

diamonds, surrounded by men whose admiration she evidently liked, the

good thoughts of her which he had eagerly cherished were burnt up in a

new flame of suspicion, a rage of jealous anger. He was furious with the

girl for coming to this dance which ladies of position had ignored,

furious because she had come with such people, women who painted their

faces, and a crowd of men of different nations.

The two sides of his nature warred like opposing forces. The wild

passion of Othello was in him. He could have snatched up the slender

white-and-gold figure, wrapped the shining jewelled head in the trailing

scarf of point lace, and rushed away with the girl in his

arms--anywhere, far from these people who had no right to be near her.

He could not bear to see the Maharajah's eyes on her face and on her

long white throat. A hateful thought sprang into his mind concerning the

rope of Indian pearls, with ruby and emerald tassels, tied loosely round

her neck. He wondered if the Maharajah of Indorwana had given it to her,

if she would have accepted such a gift from the brown man; and the

thought seemed to take colour in his brain, as if it were a bright

scarlet spot which grew larger and redder, spreading behind his eyes

till he could see nothing else.

Vanno had told himself many times that he must not draw too near this

girl; that for the sake of love's nobility, for the sake of his respect

for womanhood sacred in her and in all women, he must not draw near

unless her soul were a star behind the eyes that were like stars. And he

had not been able to believe in the stars for more than a few happy,

exalted moments, which passed and came again, only to be blotted out

once more.

But now, suddenly, it no longer mattered whether he believed or not. He

had to try and tear her away from the life she was leading. He did not

know which impulse was master--the impulse to save a soul, or the

impulse to possess selfishly a thing coveted; at least, to snatch it

from others, if he did not take it for himself.

As he stood pale and quiet in the background, Mary was accepting

invitations to dance; for now Mrs. Collis and Lottie had arrived,

bringing three American girls and a youthful American mother from the

Hôtel Metropole, where they had gone to stay. Counting the hostess and

her daughter, the number of women had been swelled to a dozen by these

last arrivals, and dancing was to begin. The younger men, entering into

the spirit of the occasion, struggled with each other to engage

partners, and the smiling ladies were promising to split each dance

between four partners.

Mary, being the prettiest girl as well as something of a celebrity, was

almost alarmingly in request. She was besieged by men who begged her

bodyguard to introduce them quickly, and laughing like a child she was

busily giving away dances when Vanno came forward. For a moment he stood

silently behind the other men, taller than any, dark and grave, and as

always mysteriously reproachful, as if for some sin of Mary's which she

had committed unconsciously.

She looked up, struck almost with fear by the contrast between his

gravity and the frivolous gayety of the others. But he made all the rest

look puerile, and even common.

"Will you dance with me?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, forgetting to add the polite "with pleasure," which

years ago had been taught at the convent as the suitable reply for a

débutante to a prospective partner.

"The third waltz?"

"Very well--the third waltz," she echoed.

There was no question of splitting it up. No man dared make the

suggestion. Something in the Roman's manner and Mary's look gave every

one the idea that they knew each other well, that no one must try to

interfere between them.