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y. David is always good. The villain is French, fascinating, and wears a tiny black moustache to hide his mouth, which is cruel. The rest is simple. A little French restaurant--Henri's. Know you not Henri's? _Tiens!_ But Henri's is not for the tourist. A dim little shop and shabby, modestly tucked away in the shadows of the Rue Brie. But the food! Ah, the--whadd'you-call'ems--in the savoury sauce, that is Henri's secret! The tender, broiled _poularde_, done to a turn! The bottle of red wine! _Mais oui_; there one can dine under the watchful glare of Rosa, the plump, black-eyed wife of the _concierge_. With a snowy apron about her buxom waist, and a pot of red geraniums somewhere, and a sleek, lazy cat contentedly purring in the sunny window! Then Lois starving in a garret. Temptation! _Sacre bleu! Zut!_ Also _nom d'un nom!_ Enter David. _Bon!_ Oh, David, take me away! Take me back to dear old Schenectady. Love is more than all else, especially when no one will buy your pictures. The Italian story recipe is even simpler. A pearl necklace; a low, clear whistle. Was it the call of a bird or a signal? His-s-s-st! Again! A black cape; the flash of steel in the moonlight; the sound of a splash in the water; a sickening gurgle; a stifled cry! Silence! His-st! _Vendetta!_ There is the story made in Germany, filled with students and steins and scars; with beer and blonde, blue-eyed _Maedchen_ garbed--the _Maedchen_, that is--in black velvet bodice, white chemisette, scarlet skirt with two rows of black ribbon at the bottom, and one yellow braid over the shoulder. Especially is this easily accomplished if actually written in the _Vaterland_, German typewriting machines being equipped with _umlauts_. And yet not one of these formulas would seem to fit the story of Mary Gowd. Mary Gowd, with her frumpy English hat and her dreadful English fringe, and her brick-red English cheeks, which not even the enervating Italian sun, the years of bad Italian food or the damp and dim little Roman room had been able to sallow. Mary Gowd, with her shabby blue suit and her mangy bit of fur, and the glint of humour in her pale blue eyes. Many, many times that same glint of humour had saved English Mary Gowd from seeking peace in the muddy old Tiber. Her card read imposingly thus: Mary M. Gowd, Cicerone. Certificated and Licensed Lecturer on Art and Archaeology. Via del Babbuino, Roma. In plain language Mary Gowd was a guide. Now, Rome
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