my little boy and me. Ah! no, no, it is not
befitting, it cannot be----"

"I understand dimly," he said; "they have told you Bice was my child. I
wish it were so. I had a child, Lucy, it is true, who is dead in
Florence long ago. The mother is dead too, long ago. It is so long past
that, if you can believe it, I had--forgotten."

"Dead!" she said. And there came into her mild eyes a scared and
frightened look. "And--the Contessa?"

"The Contessa!" he cried.

They were standing apart gazing at each other with something more like
the heat of a passionate debate than had ever arisen between them, or
indeed seemed possible to Lucy's tranquil nature, when the door was
suddenly opened and the voice of Williams saying, "Sir Thomas is here,
my lady," reduced them both in an instant to silence. Then there was a
bustle and a movement, and of all wonderful sights to meet their eyes,
the Contessa herself came with hesitation into the room. She had her
handkerchief pressed against the lower part of her face, from above
which her eyes looked out watchfully. She gave a little shriek at the
sight of Lucy. "I thought," she said, "Sir Tom was alone. Lucy, my
angel, my sweetest, do not come near me!" She recoiled to the door which
Williams had just closed. "I will say what I have to say here. Dearest
people, I love you, but you are charged with pestilence. My Lucy, how
glad I am for your little boy--but every moment they tell me increases
the danger. Where is Bice? Bice! I have come to bring her away."

"Contessa," said Sir Tom, "you have come at a fortunate moment. Tell
Lady Randolph who Bice is. I think she has a right to know."

"Who Bice is? But what has that to do with it? She is _fiancee_, she
belongs to more than herself. And there is the drawing-room in a
week--imagine, only in a week!--and how can she go into the presence of
the Queen full of infection? I acknowledge, I acknowledge," cried the
Contessa, through her handkerchief, "you have been very kind--oh, more
than kind. But why then now will you spoil all? It might make a
revolution--it might convey to Majesty herself---- Ah! it might spoil all
the child's prospects. Who is she? Why should you reproach me with my
little mystery now? She is all that is most natural; Guido's child, whom
you remember well enough, Sir Tom, who married my poor little sister, my
little girl who followed me, who would do as I did. You know all this,
for I have told you. They are all dead, all