it seemed
fascinating to us. The fruit stalls, under overhanging balconies, looked
as if piled with splendid jewels; rubies, amethysts and pearls, globes
of gold, and silver, and coral, as big as those that Aladdin found in
the wonderful cave. Dark girls with starry eyes and clouds of hair stood
gossipping in old, carved doorways, or peered curiously down at us from
oddly shaped windows; and they were so handsome that we liked them even
when they doubled up with laughter at our procession, and called their
lovers and brothers to laugh too.

Men and women ran out from dark recesses where they sold things, and
from two-foot-wide alleys which the sun could never have even seen,
staring at us, and saying "molta bella" as Maida passed. She really was
very effective against the rich-coloured background--like a beautiful
white bird that had strayed into the narrow village streets, with
sunshine on its wings. But she didn't seem to realize that she was being
looked at in a different way from the rest of us. "I suppose we're as
great curiosities to them, as they are to us," she said, lingering to
gaze at the gorgeous fruit, or some quaint Catholic emblems for sale in
dingy windows, until Sir Ralph had to hurry her along lest we should
miss the train.

We were in plenty of time, though; and at the railroad depot (according
to me), or the railway station (according to Sir Ralph and our
Chauffeulier), the automobile had been got onto the truck before the
train was signalled. Our tickets had been bought by Mr. Barrymore, who
would pay for them all, as he said it was "his funeral," and we stood in
a row on the platform, waiting, when the train boomed in.

As it slowed down, car after car passing us, Mamma gave a little scream
and pointed. "Look, there's another automobile on a truck!" said she.
"My goodness, if it isn't exactly like the Prince's!"

"And if that isn't exactly like the Prince!" echoed Sir Ralph, waving
his hand at the window of a car next to the truck.

We all broke into a shout of ribald joy. Not even a saint could have
helped it, I'm sure; for Maida is pretty near to a saint, and she was as
bad as any of us.

The Prince's head popped back into the window, like a rabbit's into its
hole; but in another second he must have realized that it was no use
playing 'possum when there, within a dozen yards, was that big scarlet
runner of his, as large as life, though not running for the moment. He
quickly decided to make