of Rome blunts
one's English sensibilities. Fifteen years of privation dulls one's
moral sense. And money meant America. And little Tweetie Gregg had not
lowered her voice or her laugh when she spoke that afternoon of Mary
Gowd's absurd English fringe and her red wrists above her too-short
gloves.

"How much?" asked Mary Gowd. He named a figure. She laughed.

"More--much more!"

He named another figure; then another.

"You will put it down on paper," said Mary Gowd, "and sign your
name--to-morrow."

They drove the remainder of the way in silence. At her door in the Via
Babbuino:

"You mean to marry her?" asked Mary Gowd.

Blue Cape shrugged eloquent shoulders:

"I think not," he said quite simply.

* * * * *

It was to be the Appian Way the next morning, with a stop at the
Catacombs. Mary Gowd reached the hotel very early, but not so early as
Caldini.

"Think the five of us can pile into one carriage?" boomed Henry Gregg
cheerily.

"A little crowded, I think," said Mary Gowd, "for such a long drive.
May I suggest that we three"--she smiled on Henry Gregg and his
wife--"take this larger carriage, while Miss Eleanora and Signor Caldini
follow in the single cab?"

A lightning message from Blue Cape's eyes.

"Yes; that would be nice!" cooed Tweetie.

So it was arranged. Mary Gowd rather outdid herself as a guide that
morning. She had a hundred little intimate tales at her tongue's end.
She seemed fairly to people those old ruins again with the men and women
of a thousand years ago. Even Tweetie--little frivolous, indifferent
Tweetie--was impressed and interested.

As they were returning to the carriages after inspecting the Baths of
Caracalla, Tweetie even skipped ahead and slipped her hand for a moment
into Mary Gowd's.

"You're simply wonderful!" she said almost shyly. "You make things sound
so real. And--and I'm sorry I was so nasty to you yesterday at Tivoli."

Mary Dowd looked down at the glowing little face. A foolish little face
it was, but very, very pretty, and exquisitely young and fresh and
sweet. Tweetie dropped her voice to a whisper:

"You should hear him pronounce my name. It is like music when he says
it--El-e-a-no-ra; like that. And aren't his kid gloves always
beautifully white? Why, the boys back home--"

Mary Gowd was still staring down at her. She lifted the slim, ringed
little hand which lay within her white-cotton paw and stared at that
too.