his father come to her and beg her to let him go?"

"Very likely," said Rowland. "I hope she consents."

"I forget. But tell me," she continued, "shall you consider--admitting
your proposition--that in ceasing to flirt with Mr. Hudson, so that
he may go about his business, I do something magnanimous, heroic,
sublime--something with a fine name like that?"

Rowland, elated with the prospect of gaining his point, was about
to reply that she would deserve the finest name in the world; but he
instantly suspected that this tone would not please her, and, besides,
it would not express his meaning.

"You do something I shall greatly respect," he contented himself with
saying.

She made no answer, and in a moment she beckoned to her maid. "What have
I to do to-day?" she asked.

Assunta meditated. "Eh, it 's a very busy day! Fortunately I have a
better memory than the signorina," she said, turning to Rowland. She
began to count on her fingers. "We have to go to the Pie di Marmo to see
about those laces that were sent to be washed. You said also that you
wished to say three sharp words to the Buonvicini about your pink dress.
You want some moss-rosebuds for to-night, and you won't get them for
nothing! You dine at the Austrian Embassy, and that Frenchman is to
powder your hair. You 're to come home in time to receive, for the
signora gives a dance. And so away, away till morning!"

"Ah, yes, the moss-roses!" Christina murmured, caressingly. "I must have
a quantity--at least a hundred. Nothing but buds, eh? You must sew them
in a kind of immense apron, down the front of my dress. Packed tight
together, eh? It will be delightfully barbarous. And then twenty more or
so for my hair. They go very well with powder; don't you think so?" And
she turned to Rowland. "I am going en Pompadour."

"Going where?"

"To the Spanish Embassy, or whatever it is."

"All down the front, signorina? Dio buono! You must give me time!"
Assunta cried.

"Yes, we'll go!" And she left her place. She walked slowly to the door
of the church, looking at the pavement, and Rowland could not guess
whether she was thinking of her apron of moss-rosebuds or of her
opportunity for moral sublimity. Before reaching the door she turned
away and stood gazing at an old picture, indistinguishable with
blackness, over an altar. At last they passed out into the court.
Glancing at her in the open air, Rowland was startled; he imagined he
saw the traces of hastily