g was excessively clean. There was a framed photograph of the
Kaiser on the sideboard. In a room beyond someone was playing the
violin.

"How many are you in family?"

"I am alone."

The Frau looked down at the gloved hands. "You are not married?"

"No."

The woman hesitated. "You would be out during the day?"

"Oh, yes," Olive said hopefully. "I shall be giving lessons."

"Ah, well, perhaps-- What would you pay?"

"I am poor, and I thought you would say as little as possible. I
should be glad to help you in the house."

"There is a good deal of mending," the Frau said thoughtfully; "and
you might clean your own room. Shall we say twenty-four lire weekly?"

The playing in the other room ceased, and a young man put his head in
at the door. "_Mutter_," he said, and then begged her pardon, but he
did not go away.

Olive tried not to look at him, but he was staring at her and his eyes
were extraordinarily blue. He was pale, and his wide brows and strong
cleft chin reminded her of Botticelli's steel-clad archangel. He wore
his smooth fair hair rather long too, in the archangelic manner, he--

"Paid in advance," Frau Heylmann said very sharply. Then she turned
upon her son. "What do you want, Wilhelm?"

"Oh, I can wait," he said easily.

She snorted. "I am sorry I cannot receive you," she said to the girl.
"I am not accustomed to have young women in my house. No."

She waddled to the door and Olive followed her meekly, but she could
not keep her lips from smiling. "I do not blame you," she said as she
passed out on to the landing. "Your son is charming."

The woman looked at her more kindly now that she was going. "He is
beautiful," she said, with pride. "Some day he will be great. _Ach!_
You should hear him play!"

Olive laughed. "You would not let me."

She could not take this rebuff seriously, but as she trudged the
streets in the thin cold rain that had fallen persistently all that
morning her sense of humour was blunted by discomfort. The long dark,
stone-paved hall that was the restaurant of the Aquila Verde seemed
cold and cheerless. At noon it was always full of hungry men devouring
macaroni and _vitello alla Milanese_, and the steam of hot food and
the sound of masticating jaws greeted Olive as she came in and took
her place at a little table near the stove.

The young waiter, Angelo, brought her a cup of coffee after the cheese
and celery. "It gives courage," he said. "And I see you need that