one of these window tables--a very small one--sat a lovely creature,
alone. A good many heads were turning to look at her, so probably she
had not long ago arrived. For an instant Vanno's eyes were fixed upon
the glittering figure, and the bowed face shadowed by an eccentric hat,
without recognizing it. But it was only for an instant. Then, with a
shock of surprise which was almost horror, he realized that this lovely,
low-necked bird of Paradise creature was the same gentle girl he had
followed.

"Dio!" he said to himself, and bit his lip. He felt the blood rush up to
his face, as if some one had given him an insulting blow, which he could
not avenge because his hands were tied.

There were two or three other young and beautiful women alone, dressed
with equal extravagance, their gowns as low, their hats as big; only
she, his Juliet, was more beautiful than any. That was the difference
between them. But was it the only difference? The young man, whose eyes
still reflected the golden light of vast desert spaces, asked himself
the question with a sick sinking of the heart. He had followed an angel,
and found her--what? Because about those two or three others there was
no question at all. And why was she here alone, dressed like them,
if--but he would not finish the sentence in his mind. He resolved to
study the girl, and give her the full benefit of the doubt, so long as
there was a ray of hope.

Vanno had not gone so far as to fall in love at first sight; yet coming
back from the desert with his heart open to beauty and romance, he had
been willing to let himself go to the brink, or over it, if it were
worth while, else he would not have followed Juliet's eyes. But he
wished to have nothing to do with the white angel if she were a fallen
angel. Such a one would be easy to know, to walk with and talk with,
whereas he might have found it difficult to make the acquaintance of a
conventionally brought up girl. Some men might have been glad to find
the heroine of a romantic adventure dining alone at a fashionable hotel
at Monte Carlo, in a sheath-like, low-cut dress and a hat of to-morrow's
fashion. But Prince Vanno Della Robbia was sick at heart, and dazed as
by a blow.

His father, Duca di Rienzi, had a strain of stern asceticism in his
nature, and even the impulsive, warm-hearted American mother could not
wholly redeem from gloom the cold palace in Rome and the dark fourteenth
century castle at Monte Della Robbia. Ea