he knew was being enacted in the library.

"Shall we join the others now, Edna, _carissima_?"

"If--if you like."

He nearly laughed aloud as he saw the silk curtains drawn. The Prince
stood aside to allow Edna to pass in first, and Olive, glancing up
momentarily from the unfamiliar notes, saw the green gleam of an
emerald on the strong brown hand as the brocaded folds were lifted
up. Her own hands swerved, blundered, and she perpetrated a hopeless
discord.

"I beg your pardon," she said confusedly.

Mamie shrugged her shoulders. "Never mind," she answered lightly. "The
last verse don't matter anyway. Come to here, Edna. Momma wants to
hear your fiddle-playing."

"Yes, play us something, my dear."

The little girl came forward shyly.

As the Prince and the Marchese stood together by the fireplace at the
other end of the long room Mamie joined them. "You sang that devil's
nocturne inimitably," observed her stepfather, drily. "I am quite
sorry to have to ask you not to do it again."

"Not again? Why not?"

She perched herself on the arm of one of the great gilt chairs. The
Prince raised his eyes from the thoughtful contemplation of her ankles
to stare at her impudent red parted lips.

"Why not! Need I explain, _cara_? It was delicious; I enjoyed it, but,
alas!" He heaved an exaggerated sigh and then laughed, and the young
man and the girl shared in his merriment.

"I am sorry to make so many mistakes," Olive said apologetically as
she laboured away at her part of an easy piece arranged for violin and
piano.

"Oh, it is nothing. I have made ever so many myself, and I ought to
have turned the page for you."

The gentle voice was rather tremulous.

"That was charming," pronounced the Marchesa. "Now that sonata, Edna.
I am so fond of it."

"Very well, auntie."

The Prince had gone into the billiard-room with his host, and Mamie
was with them. They were knocking the balls about and laughing ...
laughing.

CHAPTER II

In the Cascine gardens the lush green grass of the glades was strewn
with leaves; soon the branches would be bare, or veiled only in winter
mists, and the Arno, swollen with rain, ran yellow as Tiber. It was
not a day for music, but the sun shone, and many idle Florentines
drove, or rode, or walked by the Lung'Arno to the Rajah's monument,
passing and repassing the bench where Olive sat with Madame de
Sariviere's stout and elderly German Fraeulein. Mamie was not far away;
flambo