seen.

They were making their way while talking toward Porta Romana, and were
often obliged to step off the narrow sidewalk to make room for other
passers, the street being busy at that time of day.

Brenda was in the midst of an entirely pertinent remark when her voice
softly died, like the flame of a candle sucked out by a draft or like a
music-box run down. Gerald, looking round for the end of her sentence,
saw that she had sighted an acquaintance on the other side of the
street.

She nodded, without a smile, slowly. Just so must Beatrice have bowed in
these same streets of Florence when she passed the dreamy passionate
youth through whom we are acquainted with her name.

Gerald's eyes traveled across the way to see who might be the recipient
of the lady's most sweet salute, and hurriedly uncovered to an officer
of the Italian army who, holding his hand to his cap, stood at attention
till the two had passed.

Was the man pale or was it that one had never before noticed, meeting
him indoors and at evening, how strongly the black of his mustache and
brows contrasted with his skin? The suspicion that had for a moment
troubled Gerald in church returned as a stronger infection. Had Brenda
expected this? Did they concert such meetings?

He might have said to himself that a tryst which consisted in crossing
glances from opposite sides of the street was very innocent. In a moment
he did see that as the villas _fuori la porta_ must be reached
through the _porta_, a lover whose lady lived on Vial dei Colli
might without previous arrangement hope for a glimpse of her by walking
in its neighborhood.

As we have seen him doing more than once this afternoon, Gerald here
tried to get his clue from Brenda herself, her face, her atmosphere. Yet
he knew, as has already been said, that it was Brenda Foss's way to keep
these as much as she could from telling anything to the world. This
wariness notwithstanding a tinge of unaccustomed rose had spread through
the clear white of her cheek; her eyes had in them noticeably more life.
Emotion or mere self-consciousness?

On one point only he was satisfied: Brenda had done nothing that
involved deceit. Into the very structure of her face, which had almost
nothing left of the American look, was built a certain Puritan
truthfulness. She could conceal if she must, but hated to shuffle, to
prevaricate. She concealed exactly because of that.

"Go on with the Sienese masters, Gerald," she