her
existence."

"You can send it now by someone who must wait for an answer," she
explained. "I shall stay here until it comes."

"Very well," he said sulkily, and he went out into the hall to confer
with the porter. "An important letter, _Eccellenza_? A _vetturino_
will take it for you--"

Olive heard the opening and shutting of doors, the shrill whistle
answered by harsh, raucous cries, the rattling of wheels. Filippo came
back to her.

"I have done my part." Then, looking at her closely, he saw that she
was very pale. "Is all you have implied and I have written true?"

"No."

"You must love him very much."

"I? Not at all, as you understand love."

The ensuing half-hour seemed long to the girl; Filippo talked
desultorily, but there were intervals of silence. She was too tired to
attempt to answer him, and, besides, his evident restlessness, his
inattention, afforded her some acrid amusement. He was like a boy,
eager in pursuit of the bird in the bush, heedless of the poor thing
fluttering, dying in his hand. It was now near the dinner-hour, and
people were coming into the lounge to await the sounding of the gong;
from where Olive sat she could see all the entrances and exits--as in
a glass darkly--in the clouded surface of a mirror that hung on the
wall and reflected the white gleam of shirt fronts, the shimmer of
silks, and she was quick to note that Filippo was interested in what
she saw as a pink blur.

His love was as fully winged for flight as any Beast of the book of
Revelations; it was swift as a sword to pierce and be withdrawn. He
could not be altogether loyal for a day. Olive's heart was filled
with pity for the women who had cared.

When, at last, the answer to the letter came, the Prince gave it to
her to read. It was very short, a mere scrawl of scarlet ink on the
brown, rough-edged paper that was one of Camille's affectations.

"My zeal was evidently misplaced and I regret its
excess."

Olive was speechless; her eyes were dimmed, her throat ached with
tears. How easily he believed the worst--this man who had been her
friend. She rose to go, but Filippo laid a detaining hand upon her
arm.

"To-morrow." He had already told her where and when to meet him, and
had given her two keys.

"Are you sure you want me?" she said hurriedly. "There are so many
women in your life. You remind me of the South American Republic that
made--and shot--seventeen presidents in six months."

He