anding the Contessa's habit of not appearing, it was supposed
that the young lady whom most people supposed to have arrived very
recently must be present at the morning meal. Young Montjoie, who was
generally very late, appeared among the first; and there was a look of
curiosity and anxiety in his face as he turned towards the door every
time it was opened, which betrayed his motive. But this expectation was
not destined to be repaid. Bice did not appear at breakfast. She did not
even come downstairs, though the Contessa did, for luncheon. When Madame
di Forno-Populo came in to this meal there was a general elevation of
all heads and eager look towards her, to which she replied with her
usual smile but no explanation of any kind; nor would she make any
reply, even to direct questions. She did nothing but smile when Montjoie
demanded to know if Miss Forno-Populo was not coming downstairs, if she
had gone away, if she were ill, if she would appear before three
o'clock--with which questions he assailed her in downright fashion. When
the Contessa did not smile she put on a look of injured sweetness.
"What!" she said, "Am I then so little thought of? You have no more
pleasure, ficklest of young men, in seeing me?" "Oh, I assure you,
Countess," he cried, "that's all right, don't you know; but a fellow may
ask. And then it was your own doing to make us so excited."

"Yes, a fellow may ask," said the Contessa, smiling; but this was all
the response she would give, nothing that could really throw the least
light upon the subject of his curiosity. The other men of her following
looked on with undisguised admiration at this skilled and accomplished
woman. To see how she held in hand the youth whom they all considered as
her victim was beautiful they thought; and bets even were going amongst
them as to the certainty that she would land her big fish. Sir Tom, at
the head of the table, did not regard the matter so lightly. There was a
curve of annoyance in his forehead. He did not understand what game she
was playing. It was, without doubt, a game of some sort, and its object
was transparent enough; and Sir Tom could not easily forgive the
dramatic efforts of the previous night, or endure the thought that his
house was the scene of tactics so little creditable. He was vexed with
the Contessa, with Bice, even with Lucy, who, he could not keep from
saying to himself, should have found some means of baulking such an
intention. He was som