best, and her dress so successful, is
to me a delight. I am nearly as much excited as the child herself!"

Lucy looked from one to another, and felt that it was impossible for her
to say what she wished to say. The girl's pleasure seemed so innocent,
and that of her protectress and guardian so generous, so tender. All
that had offended Lucy's instincts, the dramatic effort of the
Contessa, the careful preparation of all the effects, the singling out
of young Montjoie as the object, all seemed to melt away in the girlish
delight of Bice, and the sympathetic triumph of her guardian. She did
not know what to say to them. It was she who was the culprit, putting
thoughts of harm which had not found any entrance there into the girl's
mind. She flushed with shame and an uneasy sense that the tables were
thus turned upon her; and yet how could she depart without some warning?
It was not only her own troubled uncomfortable feeling; but had she not
read the same, still more serious and decided, in her husband's eyes?

"I don't know what to say," said Lucy. "But Sir Tom thinks so too. He
will tell you better, he knows better. Lord Montjoie is--I do not know
why he was asked. I did not wish it. He is--dear Madame di Forno-Populo,
you have seen so much more than I--he is vulgar--a little. And Bice is
so young; she may be deceived."

For a moment a cloud, more dark than had ever been seen there before,
overshadowed the Contessa's face. But Bice burst forth into a peal of
laughter, clapping her hands. "Is that vulgar?" the girl cried. "I am
glad. Now I know how he is different. It is what you call fun, don't you
know?" she cried with sudden mimicry, at which Lucy herself could not
refuse to laugh.

"I waited outside to hear a little of the song. It was so wonderful that
I could not laugh; and to utter all that before you, Madama, after he
had heard you--oh, what courage! what braveness!" cried Bice. "I did not
think any one could be so brave!"

"You mean so simple, dear child," said the Contessa, whose brow had
cleared; "that is really what is so wonderful in these English men. They
are so simple, they never see how it is different. It is brave if you
please, but still more simple-minded. Little Montjoie is so. He knows no
better; not to me only, but even to you, Bice, with that voice of yours,
so pure, so fresh, he listens, then performs as you heard. It is
wonderful, as you say. But you have not told me, Lucy, my sweetest, what