s to the day after her coming to
California, she read in a San Francisco paper--a mere tucked-away
paragraph to fill up a corner--that the Italian amateur aeronaut, Prince
di Sereno, had arranged a sensational flight from Naples to Algiers in his
new aeroplane, an improvement on a celebrated older make. The machine had
just been named the _Vittoria_ in honour of the brave and beautiful lady
whom he called his "mascot," and who had made so many daring journeys
through the air with him. The projected dash would be the most ambitious
so far attempted, and it was exciting considerable interest. It was said
that Prince di Sereno, in gratitude to his "mascot" had lately made a will
in her favour, leaving all his personal property to her. In event of
death, his great estates would go to a nephew, as he was without a direct
heir.

Angela wondered how much of her money was left for him to bequeath to the
celebrated Vittoria di Cancellini. She did not grudge it either to the
Prince or his mascot. She took no interest in the great flight from Naples
to Algiers, but she felt certain that Paolo would succeed in accomplishing
it. He had always succeeded in everything he had ever wanted to do, except
perhaps in winning her love. But then he had not really wanted that.

The day came for the flight, but she had forgotten it. She went in the
morning to the new house, picnicked there, and returned to Del Monte only
at dusk. She was thinking on the way back of several things she would put
in the diary she kept for Nick, sending it off to him in a fat envelope
the first of each month. One bit of news she wanted to tell him was that
his favourite flowers--pansies--were to be planted in a great bed under
the windows of her own room. "Then, whenever I look out, I shall think of
you. Not that I shouldn't do that anyway." She wondered if she had better
add that last sentence, or if it would be better to leave it out.

"There's a telegram for you, Mrs. May; just this minute come," said the
hotel clerk.

Angela took it, her heart beating fast, for whenever a telegram
arrived--which happened seldom--she always wondered if it would tell her
that, for some good reason or other, Nick was coming. But he never had
come, and had never telegraphed.

She opened the envelope, and glanced first at the signature: "James
Morehouse." Why should he have wired? Then she read:

"In flight to-day aeroplane fell into Sea off Sardinia. Aeronaut
killed. Co