he Chauffeulier's question, when he helped her
out of the car at the Stella d'Oro, where we were to lunch.

"A week," said Mr. Barrymore, his eyes twinkling.

Her face fell, and he took pity.

"If we weren't motor maniacs," he went on. "In that case we would have
come here on a solemn pilgrimage to do full justice to the adorable
Giotto, to the two best churches--not to be surpassed anywhere--and the
dozen and one other things worth seeing. But as we are mad we shall be
able to 'do' Padua, and satisfy our consciences though not our hearts,
in three hours. My one consolation in this deplorable course, lies in
the thought that it will make it possible to give you your first sight
of Venice between sunset and moonrise."

Beechy clapped her hands, and my heart gave a throb. Somehow, my eyes
happened to meet Mr. Barrymore's. But I must not get into the habit of
letting them do that, when I'm feeling anything deeply. I can't think
why it seems so natural to turn to him, as if I'd known him always; but
then we have _all_ got to be great friends on this trip, and know each
other better than if we'd been meeting in an ordinary way for a year.
All except the Prince. I leave him out of that statement, as I would
leave him out of everything concerning me nearly, if I could. I believe
that _none_ of us know him, or what is in his mind. But sometimes
there's a look in his eyes if one glances up suddenly, which would
almost frighten one, if it were not silly and melodramatic. That is the
only way in which he has troubled me since the horrid little incident at
Juliet's tomb--with these occasional, strange looks; and as he wrote me
a note of apology for his bad conduct then, I ought to forgive and
forget.

The hotel where we lunched was not in a quaint riverside street, but in
a square so modern it was hard to realize for the moment that we were
in the oldest city of Northern Italy, dating from before Roman days.
However, the Stella d'Oro was old enough to satisfy us, and I should
have been delighted with the nice Italian dishes Mr. Barrymore knew so
well how to order, if I hadn't been longing to rush off with a bit of
bread in my hand, not to waste a Paduan moment on so dull a deed as
eating.

It was only twelve when we arrived, and before one we were out of the
huge, cool dining-room, and in the May sunlight again. The Prince was
with us; had been just ahead of us, or just behind us, all through the
journey from Verona. But I t