e, anyway? A certain boy and a certain girl agree to
go for a row in the same boat to the same place, and if they pull
together, what does it matter where they come from?"

"What, indeed?" she said, and a smile, partly serious, played about the
parted mouth.

"Could _you_ think like that?"

"I could! I could! I could!"

The clock struck eleven. Another fanfare of trumpets came from the
direction of the Vatican, and then the confused noises in the square
suddenly ceased and a broad "Ah!" passed over it, as of a vast living
creature taking breath.

"They're coming!" cried Roma. "Baron, the cortege is coming."

"Presently," the Baron answered from within.

Roma's dog, which had slept on a chair through the tumult, was awakened
by the lull and began to bark. She picked it up, tucked it under her arm
and ran back to the balcony, where she stood by the parapet, in full
view of the people below, with the young Roman on one side, the American
on the other, and the ladies seated around.

By this time the procession had begun to appear, issuing from a bronze
gate under the right arm of the colonnade, and passing down the channel
which had been kept open by the cordon of infantry.

Roma abandoned herself to the fascinations of the scene, and her gaiety
infected everybody.

"Camillo, you must tell me who they all are. There now--those men who
come first in black and red?"

"Laymen," said the young Roman. "They're called the Apostolic Cursori.
When a Cardinal is nominated they take him the news, and get two or
three thousand francs for their trouble."

"And these little fat folk in white lace pinafores?"

"Singers of the Sistine Chapel. That's the Director, old Maestro
Mustafa--used to be the greatest soprano of the century."

"And this dear old friar with the mittens and rosary and the comfortable
linsey-woolsey sort of face?"

"That's Father Pifferi of San Lorenzo, confessor to the Pope. He knows
all the Pope's sins."

"Oh!" said Roma.

At that moment her dog barked furiously, and the old friar looked up at
her, whereupon she smiled down on him, and then a half-smile played
about his good-natured face.

"He is a Capuchin, and those Frati in different colours coming behind
him...."

"I know them; see if I don't," she cried, as there passed under the
balcony a double file of friars and monks. "The brown ones--Capuchins
and Franciscans! Brown and white--Carmelites! Black--Augustinians and
Benedictines! Black