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