rs never to allude to that
subject," she cried.

The maid was on her knees calmly collecting the scattered contents of
the tray.

"A thousand pardons, madame," she said, with a certain sour impudence.
"Still, it must ever be a matter of regret to any one truly
appreciating madame's style of beauty, that she should be always
constrained to wear her hair shading her forehead."

Modern civilisation imposes restrictions even upon the most
high-spirited. At that moment Madame de Vallorbes was ripe for the
commission of atrocities. Had she been--as she coveted to be--a lady of
the Roman decadence it would have gone hard with her waiting-woman, who
might have found herself ordered for instant execution or summarily
deprived of the organs of speech. But, latter-day sentiment happily
forbidding such active expressions of ill-feeling on the part of the
employer towards the employed, Helen was forced to swallow her wrath,
reminding herself, meanwhile, that a confidential servant is either
most invaluable of friends or most dangerous of enemies. There is no
_via media_ in the relation. And Zelie as an enemy was not to be
thought of. She could not--displeasing reflection--afford to quarrel
with Zelie. The woman knew too much. Therefore Madame de Vallorbes took
refuge in lofty abstraction, while the tiresome uncertainties, the
conflicting inclinations of the past day, quick to seize their
opportunity, as is the habit of such discourteous gentry,--returned
upon her with redoubled importunity and force.

She had not seen Richard since parting with him at noon, the enigmatic
suggestions of his conversation still unresolved, the alternate
resentment at his apparent indifference and attraction of his strong
and somewhat mysterious personality still vitally present to her. Later
she had driven out to Pozzuoli. But neither stone-throwing urchins,
foul and disease-stricken beggars, the pale sulphur plains and
subterranean rumblings of the Solfaterra, nor stirring of nether fires
therein resident by a lanky, wild-eyed lad--clothed in leathern jerkin
and hairy, goatskin leggings--with the help of a birch broom and a few
local newspapers, served effectually to rouse her from inward debate
and questioning. The comfortable, cee-spring carriage might swing and
sway over the rough, deep-rutted roads behind the handsome, black,
long-tailed horses, the melodramatic-looking coachman might lash
stone-throwing urchins and anathematise them, their a