stand it, so I had to come away, but nobody else
seemed to mind, and some of 'em was hanging over the wall to see what
was going on!' I couldn't imagine what she meant, for a minute. Then I
knew it must be the pigeon-shooters."

Angelo laughed. "Of course. But what do _you_ know of the
pigeon-shooters, Marie mia? You have sternly refused to let me take you
to Monte Carlo."

Marie blushed, a sudden bright blush. "Oh, you have told me about
them--how they shoot under the terrace. That's one reason why I love
staying here at Cap Martin, or taking excursions where everything is
purely beautiful, and nothing to make one sad."

"I don't remember telling you about the pigeon-shooting," Angelo said.

"Well, if you didn't tell me, somebody else must have, mustn't
they--else how could I know?"

"Highnesses, Mister the Stereo-Mondaine."

A frail wisp of a man was ushered by the butler on to the loggia: a man
very shabby, very thin, very proud, with a camera out of proportion to
his size and strength, hugged under one arm. He would have been known as
a Frenchman if found dressed in furs at the North Pole.

He explained passionately that, had he been a mere photographer, he
would not have ventured to intrude upon such distinguished company; but
he was unique in his profession, a Stereo-Mondaine, a traveller who knew
his world and had a _metier_ very special. He was, in short, an artist
in colour photography; and before asking the privilege that he desired,
he would beg to show a sample of his most successful work at Monte
Carlo.

"Here, for instance," he went on hurriedly in his French of the Midi,
"is a treasure of artisticness; a marvel of a portrait, a poem!" And he
displayed a large glass plate, neatly bound round the edges with gilt
paper. His thin hand, on which veins rose in a bas relief, held the
plate up tremulously against the light. All bent forward with a certain
interest, for none of the three had seen many specimens of colour
photography. Vanno and the cure both gave vent to slight exclamations.
They were looking at a picture of Mary Grant, dressed in pale blue, with
a blue hat. She was standing in the _Place_ of the Casino at Monte
Carlo, feeding pigeons.

It seemed to Vanno that his sister-in-law also uttered a faint, "Oh!"
But turning to her, he saw that she was leaning back among the cushions
of the hammock, having ceased to take an interest in the prettily
coloured photograph. She met his eyes. "I thou