had frankly feared that she might have to.
Still ... Sue was not _quite_ easy in her heart over the situation. As
she had declared, she did believe in friendship between men and
women--but not so very much in a friendship between a man and woman as
young and attractive as these two.

Then one day something happened to make her really apprehensive. It was
about the end of June. Amaldi and Sophy were in the rose-garden. Through
an archway in the yew hedge Susan could see them as she sat with her
embroidery under one of the big beeches on the lawn. Sophy was cutting
roses. As she cut them she laid them in a basket that Amaldi held for
her. The sunlight on her thin white gown, and the red and pink and
yellow roses that kept tossing into the basket, gave an effect of
light-hearted happiness. Sophy's black sash only heightened this
impression. It was as though grief had shrunk to the size of a narrow
riband.

And as Sue sat there thinking this, she heard the chugging of a motor,
and there was Lady Wychcote sweeping round the lawn, all in black from
top to toe, the reverse, as it were, of that bright, sun-washed picture
framed by the yew hedge.

Susan had not met Lady Wychcote before, but she guessed in an instant
who it was. She went forward, her back pringling with the consciousness
of the sunny tableau upon which it was turned.

Lady Wychcote was inclined to be gracious. She had heard of Miss Pickett
from Sophy of course. So very good of her to take pity on poor Sophy's
solitude. And just as she was saying this, she caught sight of the two
in the rose garden. Susan knew that she had seen them by the sudden
stiffening of her figure, even before she lifted her _face-a-main_ in
that direction.

"Who is that with Sophy?" she asked rather abruptly.

"Oh ... an old friend," replied Susan, and the moment the words were
uttered she wished them back. They sounded excuse-making somehow. She
added quickly: "The Marchese Amaldi."

"Ah?... 'An old friend'?" repeated Lady Wychcote. "I've not met him I
think. What did you say the name was?"

"Amaldi.... The Marchese Marco Amaldi...."

"Wait a bit...." said Lady Wychcote. "Though I don't know him, the name
seems familiar." She repeated it once or twice: "Amaldi ... Amaldi...."
Then she looked quickly at Susan. "Is he by any chance the man whose
music has been so much discussed this season?"

"Yes--the same," said Susan.

"Ah ... now I place him. They were talking of him at d