at the consulate. No, they are in my other coat. One of them
was Mrs. Something Hawthorne, the other Miss Estelle Something."

"What did they want?"

"Everything--quite frankly everything. They have grown tired of their
hotel; they speak nothing but English and don't know a soul. They came
to find out from me how to go about getting a house and servants, horses
and carriage."

"Did they think that was part of a consul's duty?"

"They didn't think. They cast themselves on the breast of a
fellow-countryman. They caught at a plank."

"A house, horses. They are rich, then."

"So one would judge. Oh, yes, they're rich in a jolly, shameless,
old-fashioned American way."

"Well, it's a nice way." Mrs. Foss added limitingly: "When they're also
generous. One has noticed, however, hasn't one,"--she seemed on second
thought to be taking back something of her approval,--"a certain
reticence, as a rule, with regard to the display of wealth in people of
any real culture?"

"These aren't, my dear. It's as plain as that they're rich. And, for a
change, let me whisper to you, I found it pleasant. Not one tiresome
word about art did they utter in connection with this, their first,
visit to Italy."

"I can see you liked them, but what you have so far said doesn't
entirely help me to see why. Rich and ignorant Americans,
unfortunately--A light breaks upon me! They were pretty!"

A twinkle came into the consul's eyes, looking over at his wife, as one
is amused sometimes by a joke old and obvious.

His pause before answering seemed filled with an effort to visualize the
persons in question.

"Upon my word, Etta, I couldn't tell you." He laughed at his inability.

"By that token they were not beauties," said the wife.

"It seems likely you are right. At the same time"--he was still mentally
regarding his visitors--"one would never think of wishing them other
than they are."

"Describe them if you can. What age women?"

"My dear, there again you have me. Let us say that they are in the
flower of life. One of them, so much I did remark, was rather more
blooming than the other. Perhaps she was younger."

"The miss?"

"The married one. But perhaps it was only the difference between a rose
and--" he searched--"let us say a bunch of mignonette. The rose--here I
believe I tread safely on the road of description--had of that flower
the roundness and solidity, if nothing else."

"Stout?"

"We will call it well developed, nob