il she had secured herself against the threatening
headache by a little rest and silence. The night was warm and
beautifully still; but coming out from the hot, close rooms she felt it
cool, and drew her lace scarf about her head.

Presently the sounds of voices and footsteps approaching along the
terrace roused her from the dreamy state into which she had fallen. She
drew back into the shadow, hoping to escape notice and get a few more
precious minutes of silence before again having to rack her tired brain
for conversation. To her great annoyance the footsteps paused near to
the screen; then Signora Grassini's thin, piping little voice broke off
for a moment in its stream of chatter.

The other voice, a man's, was remarkably soft and musical; but its
sweetness of tone was marred by a peculiar, purring drawl, perhaps mere
affectation, more probably the result of a habitual effort to conquer
some impediment of speech, but in any case very unpleasant.

"English, did you say?" it asked. "But surely the name is quite Italian.
What was it--Bolla?"

"Yes; she is the widow of poor Giovanni Bolla, who died in England
about four years ago,--don't you remember? Ah, I forgot--you lead such a
wandering life; we can't expect you to know of all our unhappy country's
martyrs--they are so many!"

Signora Grassini sighed. She always talked in this style to strangers;
the role of a patriotic mourner for the sorrows of Italy formed an
effective combination with her boarding-school manner and pretty
infantine pout.

"Died in England!" repeated the other voice. "Was he a refugee, then?
I seem to recognize the name, somehow; was he not connected with Young
Italy in its early days?"

"Yes; he was one of the unfortunate young men who were arrested in
'33--you remember that sad affair? He was released in a few months;
then, two or three years later, when there was a warrant out against him
again, he escaped to England. The next we heard was that he was married
there. It was a most romantic affair altogether, but poor Bolla always
was romantic."

"And then he died in England, you say?"

"Yes, of consumption; he could not stand that terrible English climate.
And she lost her only child just before his death; it caught scarlet
fever. Very sad, is it not? And we are all so fond of dear Gemma! She
is a little stiff, poor thing; the English always are, you know; but I
think her troubles have made her melancholy, and----"

Gemma stood up