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“Why, look here; Signor Caldini was introduced to us last night. His folks really belong to the nobility.”

“I know; I know,” interrupted Mary Gowd. “I tell you they cannot go alone. Please believe me! I have been fifteen years in Rome. Noble or not, Caldini is an Italian. I ask you”–she had clasped her hands and was looking pleadingly up into his face–“I beg of you, let me go with them. You need not pay me to-day. You–“

Henry Gregg looked at her very thoughtfully and a little puzzled. Then he glanced over at the group again, with Blue Cape looking down so eagerly into Tweetie’s exquisite face and Tweetie looking up so raptly into Blue Cape’s melting eyes and Ma Gregg standing so placidly by. He turned again to Mary Gowd’s earnest face.

“Well, maybe you’re right. They do seem to use chaperons in Europe–duennas, or whatever you call ’em. Seems a nice kind of chap, though.”

He strolled back to the waiting group. From her seat Mary Gowd heard Mrs. Gregg’s surprised exclamation, saw Tweetie’s pout, understood Caldini’s shrug and sneer. There followed a little burst of conversation. Then, with a little frown which melted into a smile for Blue Cape, Tweetie went to her room for motor coat and trifles that the long day’s outing demanded. Mrs. Gregg, still voluble, followed.

Blue Cape, with a long look at Mary Gowd, went out to confer with the porter about the motor. Papa Gregg, hand in pockets, cigar tilted, eyes narrowed, stood irresolutely in the centre of the great, gaudy foyer. Then, with a decisive little hunch of his shoulders, he came back to where Mary Gowd sat.

“Did you say you’ve been fifteen years in Rome?”

“Fifteen years,” answered Mary Gowd.

Henry D. Gregg took his cigar from his mouth and regarded it thoughtfully.

“Well, that’s quite a spell. Must like it here.” Mary Gowd said nothing. “Can’t say I’m crazy about it–that is, as a place to live. I said to Mother last night: ‘Little old Batavia’s good enough for Henry D.’ Of course it’s a grand education, travelling, especially for Tweetie. Funny, I always thought the fruit in Italy was regular hothouse stuff–thought the streets would just be lined with trees all hung with big, luscious oranges. But, Lord! Here we are at the best hotel in Rome, and the fruit is worse than the stuff the pushcart men at home feed to their families–little wizened bananas and oranges. Still, it’s grand here in Rome for Tweetie. I can’t stay long–just ran away from business to bring ’em over; but I’d like Tweetie to stay in Italy until she learns the lingo. Sings, too–Tweetie does; and she and Ma think they’ll have her voice cultivated over here. They’ll stay here quite a while, I guess.”

“Then you will not be here with them?” asked Mary Gowd.

“Me? No.”

They sat silent for a moment.

“I suppose you’re crazy about Rome,” said Henry Gregg again. “There’s a lot of culture here, and history, and all that; and–“

“I hate Rome!” said Mary Gowd.

Henry Gregg stared at her in bewilderment.

“Then why in Sam Hill don’t you go back to England?”

“I’m thirty-seven years old. That’s one reason why. And I look older. Oh, yes, I do. Thanks just the same. There are too many women in England already–too many half-starving shabby genteel. I earn enough to live on here–that is, I call it living. You couldn’t. In the bad season, when there are no tourists, I live on a lire a day, including my rent.”

Henry Gregg stood up.

“My land! Why don’t you come to America?” He waved his arms. “America!”

Mary Gowd’s brick-red cheeks grew redder.

“America!” she echoed. “When I see American tourists here throwing pennies in the Fountain of Trevi, so that they’ll come back to Rome, I want to scream. By the time I save enough money to go to America I’ll be an old woman and it will be too late. And if I did contrive to scrape together enough for my passage over I couldn’t go to the United States in these clothes. I’ve seen thousands of American women here. If they look like that when they’re just travelling about, what do they wear at home!”