't had a
peaceful minute there since Mary Grant left. I felt in my bones she'd
make straight for Monte Carlo, and knowing certain things about her
father and other ancestors, I didn't think it would be a good place for
her. The horrid dreams I've had about that girl have been enough to turn
my hair gray! I shall probably have to take a course of treatment from
a beauty doctor, judging by the way you glare. Luckily it seems to have
turned out all right for the dear angel. You know, she's my very bestest
friend."

"I didn't know. How should I?"

"She might have told you. Besides, when Dad and I visited you, I showed
you the photograph of a lot of girls, and pointed out Mary as my special
chum. I said she'd made up her mind to take the vows."

"By Jove, that's why, when I first saw her face, I somehow associated
her with you. I'd forgotten the photograph, though the connection was
left, a vague, floating mystery that puzzled me. But I won't be switched
off the other part of your reason. You say it's important."

"Desperately important. It may affect my whole future, and perhaps yours
too, dear cousin, odd as that may seem to you, unless you recall the
fable of the mouse and the lion."

"Which am I?"

"I leave that to your imagination. But talking of game, reminds me of
food. Do feed me. I want what at the convent we call 'a high tea.' Cold
chicken and bread and butter, and cake and jam--lots of both--and tea
with cream in it. While you're pressing morsels between my starving
lips, I will in some way or other, by word, or gesture, tell you
about--the _other part_, which is so important to us both."

If his eyes had been on her then, he might have had an electric shock of
sudden enlightenment, but he had turned his back, to go and touch the
bell.

While the servant--ordered to bring everything good--was engaged in
laying a small table, the two talked of Mary, and Jim told Peter what he
knew of Vanno Della Robbia and his family. Peter had asked to have her
"high tea" in Jim's library, because she knew it was the room he liked
best, and was most associated with his daily life at Stellamare; but she
pretended that it was because of the "special" view from the windows,
over the cypress walk with the old garden statues, and down to what she
used to call the "classic temple," in a grove of olives and stone pines
close to the sea.

When tea came, she insisted upon giving Schuyler a cup. It would, she
said, make him more