Kitabı oku: «The Wheat Princess», sayfa 9

She looked again across the sea of upturned faces and shook her head. ‘Isn’t it pitiful?’ she asked.

‘Isn’t it picturesque?’ echoed Paul.

‘That priest up there knows he’s deluding all these people, and he’s just as solemn as if he believed in the relics himself. The church is still so hopelessly mediaeval!’

‘That’s the beauty of the church,’ Paul objected. ‘It’s still mediaeval, while the rest of the world is so hopelessly nineteenth-century. I like to see these peasants believing in St. Veronica’s handkerchief and the power of the sacred Bambino to cure disease. I think it’s a beautiful exhibition of faith in a world where faith is out of fashion. I don’t blame the priests in the least for keeping it up. It’s a protest against the age. They’re about the only artists left. If I were a priest I’d learn prestidigitation, and substantiate the efficacy of the relics with a miracle or so.’

‘It’s simply fostering superstition.’

‘Take their superstition away and you deprive them of their most picturesque quality.’

‘You don’t care for anything but what’s picturesque!’ she exclaimed in a tone half scornful.

Paul did not answer. The ceremony was over and the crowd was beginning to pour out. They turned with the stream and wedged their way toward the right-hand entrance, near which their carriages were waiting. Paul manœuvred very adroitly so that the crowd should separate them from the rest of the party at the door.

‘I will tell you what I care for most,’ he said in her ear as they pushed out into the portico. ‘I care for you.’

She perceived his drift too late and looked back with an air of dismay. The others were lost in the moving mass of heads.

Paul saw her glance and laughed. ‘You’re going to take good care that we shan’t be alone together, aren’t you?’

Marcia echoed his laugh. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged frankly; ‘I’m trying to.’

‘It doesn’t matter. My time’s coming; you can’t put it off.’ His hand touched hers hanging at her side and he clasped it firmly. ‘Come here; we’ll get out of this crowd,’ and he pushed on outside and drew back into a corner by one of the tall columns. The crowd surged past, flowing down the steps like a river widening to the sea. Below them the piazza was black with a tossing, moving mass of carriages and people. The mass of the Vatican at their left loomed a black bulk in the night, its hundreds of windows shining in the reflected lights of the piazza like the eyes of a great octopus. At another time Marcia might have looked very curiously toward the palace. She might have wondered if in one of those dark windows Leo was not standing brooding over the throng of worshippers who had come that day. How must a pope feel to see thirty thousand people go out from under his roof—go out freely to their homes—while he alone may not step across the threshold? At another time she would have paused to play a little with the thought, but now her attention was engaged. Paul still held her hand.

He squared himself in front of her, with his back to the crowd. ‘Have you been thinking about what I asked you?’

Had she been thinking! She had been doing nothing else. She looked at him reproachfully. ‘Let’s not talk about it. The more I think, the more I don’t know.’

‘That’s an unfortunate state to be in. Perhaps I can help you to make up your mind. Are you going to be in love with me some day, Marcia—soon?’ he persisted.

‘I—I don’t know.’

He leaned toward her, with his face very close to hers. She shrank back further into the shadow. ‘There they are!’ she exclaimed, as she caught sight of Eleanor’s head above the crowd, and she tried to draw her hand away.

‘Never mind them. They won’t be here for three minutes. You’ve got time enough to answer me.’

‘Please, not now—Paul,’ she whispered.

‘When?’ he insisted, keeping a firm hold of her hand. ‘The next time I see you?’

‘Yes—perhaps,’ and she turned away to greet the others.

CHAPTER XII

The week following Easter proved rainy and disagreeable. It was not a cheerful period, for the villa turned out to be a fair-weather house. The stone walls seemed to absorb and retain the moisture like a vault, and a mortuary atmosphere hung about the rooms. Mr. Copley, with masculine imperviousness to mud and water, succeeded in escaping from the dampness of his home by journeying daily to the ever-luring Embassy. But his wife and niece, more solicitous on the subject of hair and clothes, remained storm-bound, and on the fourth day Mrs. Copley’s conversation turned frequently to malaria.

Marcia, who had taken the villa for better, for worse, steadfastly endeavoured to approve of it in even this uncheerful mood. She divided her time between romping through the big rooms with Gerald, Gervasio, and Marcellus, and shivering over a brazier full of coals in her own room, to the accompaniment of dripping ilex trees and the superfluous splashing of the fountain. Her book was the Egoist, and the Egoist is an illuminating work to a young woman in Marcia’s frame of mind. It makes her hesitate. She knew that Paul Dessart in no wise resembled the magnificent Sir Willoughby, and that it was unfair to make the comparison, but still she made it.

As she stood by the window, gazing down on the rain-swept Campagna, she pondered the situation and pondered it again, and succeeded only in working herself into a state of deeper indecision. Paul was interesting, attractive—as her uncle said, ‘decorative’; but was he any more, or was that enough? Should she be sorry if she said ‘no’? Should she be sorrier if she said ‘yes’? So her mind busied itself to the dripping of the raindrops; and for all the thought she spent upon the question, she wandered in a circle and finished where she had started.

The Monday following Easter week dawned clear and bright again. Marcia opened her eyes to a bar of sunlight streaming in at the eastern window, and the first sound that greeted her was a joyful chorus of bird-voices. She sat up and viewed the weather with a sense of re-awakened life, feeling as if her perplexities had somehow vanished with the rain. She was no nearer making up her mind than she had been the day before, but she was quite contented to let it stay unmade a little longer. The sound of horses’ hoofs beneath her window told her that her uncle had started for the station. When he was away and there were no guests in the house, Marcia and Mrs. Copley usually had the first breakfast served in their rooms. Accordingly, as she heard her uncle gallop off, she made a leisurely toilet, and then ate her coffee and rolls and marmalade at a little table set on the balcony. It was late when she joined her aunt on the loggia.

Mrs. Copley looked up from an intricate piece of embroidery. ‘Good morning, Marcia,’ she said, returning her niece’s greeting. ‘Yes, isn’t it a relief to see some sunshine again!—I have a surprise for you,’ she added.

‘A surprise?’ asked Marcia. ‘My birthday isn’t coming for two weeks. But never mind; surprises are always welcome. What is it?’

‘It isn’t a very big surprise; just a tiny one to break the monotony of these four days of rain. I had a note from Mrs. Royston this morning. It should have come yesterday, only it was so wet that Angelo didn’t go for the mail.’ She paused to rummage through the basket of silks. ‘I thought it was here, but no matter. She says that owing to these dreadful riots they have changed all their plans. They have entirely given up Naples, and are going north instead, on a little trip of a week or so to Assisi and Perugia. She wrote to say good-bye and to tell me that they would get back to Rome in time for your party; though they are afraid they can’t spend more than two or three days with us then, as the change of plan involves some hurry. They leave on Wednesday.’

‘That is too bad,’ said Marcia, and with the words she uttered a sigh of relief. Paul would go with them, probably; or, at any rate, she need not see him; it would postpone the difficulty. ‘But where is the surprise?’ she inquired.

‘Oh, the surprise!’ Mrs. Copley laughed. ‘I entirely forgot it. I was afraid they might think it strange that I hadn’t answered the note—though I really didn’t get it in time—so I asked your uncle to stop at their hotel and invite them all to come out to the villa for the night. I thought that since we were planning to drive to the festa at Genazzano to-morrow, it would be nice to have them with us. I am sure they would be interested in seeing the festa.’

Marcia dropped limply into a chair and looked at her aunt. ‘Is Mr. Dessart coming too?’

‘I invited him, certainly. What’s the matter? Aren’t you pleased? I thought you liked him.’

‘Oh, yes, I do; only—I wish I’d got up earlier!’ And then she laughed. The situation was rather funny, after all. She might as well make the best of it. ‘Suppose we send over to Palestrina and invite M. Benoit for dinner,’ she suggested presently. ‘I think he is stopping there this week, and it would be nice to have him. I suspect,’ she added, ‘that he is a tiny bit interested in Eleanor.’

A note was sent by a groom, who returned with the information that he had found the gentleman sitting on a rock in a field, painting a portrait of a sheep; that he had delivered the note, and got this in return.

‘This’ was a rapid sketch on bristol-board, representing the young Frenchman in evening clothes making a bow, with his hand on his heart, to the two ladies, who received him on the steps of the loggia, while a clock in the corner pointed to eight.

Marcia looked at the sketch and laughed. ‘Here’s an original acceptance, Aunt Katherine.’

Mrs. Copley smiled appreciatively. ‘He seems to be a very original young man,’ she conceded.

‘Naturellement. He’s a prix de Rome.’

‘When Frenchmen are nice they are very nice,’ said Mrs. Copley; ‘but when they are not–’ Words failed her, and she picked up her embroidery again.

At the mid-day breakfast Marcia announced rather hopefully that she did not think the Roystons would come.

‘Why not?’ her aunt inquired.

‘They’ve lost their maid, and there won’t be anybody to help them pack. If they come out to the villa to-night they won’t be ready to start for Perugia on Wednesday. Besides, Mrs. Royston never likes to do anything on the spur of the moment. She likes to plan her programme a week ahead and stick to it. Oh, I know they won’t come,’ she added with a laugh. ‘M. Benoit will be the only guest, after all.’

‘And I’ve ordered dinner for eight!’ said Mrs. Copley, pathetically. ‘I am thinking of driving over to the contessa’s this afternoon—I might invite her to join us.’

‘Oh, no, Aunt Katherine! Please, not to-day. If the Roystons should come, there’ll be a big enough party without her; and, anyway, she wouldn’t be particularly interested—Mr. Sybert isn’t here.’

‘The contessa comes to see us, not Mr. Sybert,’ Mrs. Copley returned, with a touch of asperity.

Marcia smiled into her cup of chocolate and said nothing.

While the sun was sunk in its noonday torpor, she stood by her window, gazing absently off toward the old monastery, engaged in a last valiant struggle to make up her mind. She finally turned away with an impatient shrug which banished Paul Dessart and his importunities to the bottom of the Dead Sea. There was no use in bothering any more about it now; Mrs. Royston’s mind at least was no weathercock. Marcia clung tenaciously to the hope that they would not come.

It was a beautiful afternoon, fresh and sparkling from the week of rain, and she suddenly decided upon a horseback ride to brush from her mind all bothersome questions. She got out her riding-habit and jerked the bell-rope with a force which set bells jangling wildly through the house, and brought Granton as nearly on a run as was consonant with her dignity and years.

‘It’s nothing serious,’ Marcia laughed in response to the maid’s anxious face; ‘I just made up my mind to go for a ride, and in the first flush of energy I rang louder than I meant. It’s a great thing, Granton, to get your mind made up about even so unimportant a matter as a horseback ride.’

‘Yes, miss,’ Granton agreed somewhat vaguely as she knelt down to help with a boot.

‘How in the world do those soldiers in the King’s guard ever get their boots on?’ Marcia asked.

‘I don’t know, miss,’ said Granton, patiently.

Marcia laughed. ‘Send word to the stables for Angelo to bring the horses in fifteen minutes. I’m going to take a long ride, and I must start immediately.’

‘Very well, miss.’

‘Immediately,’ Marcia called after her. In dealing with Angelo reiteration was necessary. He was an Italian, and he had still to learn the value of time.

She tied her stock before the glass in a very mannish fashion, adjusted her hat—with the least perceptible tilt—and catching up her whip and gloves, started out gaily, humming a snatch of a very much reiterated Neapolitan street song.

 
‘“Jammo ‘ncoppa, jammo jà . . .
Funiculì—funiculà.”’
 

It ended in a series of trills; she did not know the words. At the head of the stairs she met Granton returning. Granton stood primly expressionless, waiting patiently for her to have done before venturing to speak.

Marcia completed her measure and broke off with a laugh. ‘Well, Granton, what’s the matter?’

‘Angelo has taken Master Gerald’s pony to Palestrina to be shod and both of the carriages are to be used, so the other men will be needed for them, and there isn’t any one left to ride with you.’

Marcia’s smile changed to a frown. ‘How stupid! Angelo has no business to go off without saying anything.’

‘Mr. Copley left orders for him to have the pony shod.’

‘He’s not Mr. Copley’s groom; he’s mine.’

‘Yes, miss,’ said Granton.

Marcia went on slowly downstairs, her frown gathering volume as she proceeded. She wished to take a horseback ride, and she wished nothing else for the moment. She foresaw that her aunt would propose that she ride into Tivoli and take tea with the contessa. If there was one thing she hated, it was to ride at a steady jog-trot beside the carriage; and if there was a second thing, it was to take tea with the contessa.

She heard Mrs. Copley’s and Gerald’s voices in the salon and she advanced to the doorway.

‘Aunt Katherine! I’m furious! This is the first time in four days that it has stopped raining long enough for me to go out, and I’m dying to take a gallop in the country. That miserable Angelo has gone off with Gerald’s pony, and there isn’t another man on the place that can go with me. You needn’t propose my riding into Tivoli to take tea with the contessa, for I won’t do it.’

She delivered this outburst from the threshold, and as she advanced into the room she was slightly disconcerted to see Laurence Sybert lazily pulling himself from a chair to greet her—if she ever showed in a particularly bad light, Sybert was sure to be at hand. He bowed, his face politely grave, but there was the provoking suggestion of a smile not far below the surface; and as she looked at him Marcia had the uncomfortable feeling that her own face was growing red.

‘I’m sorry about Angelo, my dear,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘I didn’t know that you wanted to ride this afternoon. But here is Mr. Sybert who has come out to see your uncle, and your uncle won’t be back till evening. I’m sure he will be glad to go with you.’

Marcia glanced back at her aunt with an expression which said, ‘Oh, Aunt Katherine, wait till I get you alone!’

‘Certainly, Miss Marcia, I should be delighted to fill the recreant Angelo’s place,’ he affirmed, but in a tone which to her ear did not express any undue eagerness.

‘Thank you, Mr. Sybert,’ she smiled sweetly; ‘you are very kind, but I shouldn’t think of troubling you. I know that Aunt Katherine would like to have you go with her to call on the contessa.’

‘If you will permit it. Miss Marcia, I will ride with you instead; for though I should be happy to call on Contessa Torrenieri with Mrs. Copley, I have just driven out from Tivoli, and by way of change I should prefer not driving back.’

‘It’s awfully kind of you to offer, but I don’t really want to ride. I was just cross with Angelo for going off without saying anything.’

‘Marcia,’ remonstrated Mrs. Copley, ‘that doesn’t sound polite.’

Sybert laughed. ‘There is nothing, Miss Marcia,’ he declared, ‘that would give me more pleasure this afternoon than a gallop with you; and with your permission–’ he touched the bell.

Marcia shrugged her shoulders and gave the order as Pietro appeared.

‘Send word to the stables for Kentucky Lil and Triumvirate to be saddled at once.’

‘You may go upstairs and borrow as much of Howard’s wardrobe as you wish,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘I dare say you did not come prepared to play the part of groom.’

‘I’ll try not to get them muddier than necessary,’ he promised as he turned toward the stairs.

He reappeared shortly in corduroys and leather puttees. Marcia was leaning on the loggia balustrade, idly watching the hills, while a diminutive stable-boy slowly led the horses back and forth in the driveway. Sybert helped her to mount without a word, and they galloped down the avenue in silence. He appreciated the fact that she would have preferred staying at home to accepting his escort, and the situation promised some slight entertainment. A man inclined to be a trifle sardonic can find considerable amusement in the spectacle of a pretty girl who does not wish to talk to him, but finds herself in a position where she cannot escape. As Sybert had been passing a very hard week, he was the more willing to enjoy a little relaxation at Marcia’s expense.

They pulled their horses to a walk at the gateway, and Sybert looked at her interrogatively. She took the lead and turned to the left along the winding roadway that led up into the mountains away from the Via Prænestina. He rode up beside her again, and they galloped on without speaking. Marcia did not propose to take the initiative in any conversation; he could introduce a subject if he wished, otherwise they would keep still. For the first mile or so he maintained the stolid reserve of a well-trained groom. But finally, as they slowed the horses to a walk on a steep hill-side, he broke the silence.

‘Are we going anywhere, or just riding for pleasure?’

‘Just for pleasure.’

He waited until they had reached the top of the hill before renewing the conversation. Then, ‘It is a pleasant day,’ he observed.

Marcia regarded the landscape critically.

‘Very pleasant,’ she acquiesced.

‘Looks a little like rain, however,’ he added, anxiously fixing his eye on a small cloud on the horizon.

Marcia studied the sky a moment with an heroic effort at seriousness, and then she began to laugh.

‘I suppose we might as well make the best of it,’ she remarked.

‘Philosophy is the wisest way,’ he agreed.

‘Have you seen Gervasio?’

‘I have not yet paid my respects to him. He is well, I trust?’

‘He is simply a walking appetite!’

‘I thought he showed a tendency that way. Mrs. Copley says that you have been suffering persecution for his sake.’

‘Did she tell you about his stepfather? That’s my story; she ought to have left it for me. I can tell it much more dramatically. It was quite an adventure, wasn’t it?’

‘It was. And you got off easily. It might have turned out to be more of an adventure than you would have cared for.’

‘Oh, I like adventures.’

‘When they’re ended safely, yes. But these Italian peasants are a revengeful lot when they get it into their heads that they have been mistreated. I don’t believe you ought to drive about the country that way.’

‘I should think that two boys and a groom might be escort enough—the pony-carriage doesn’t accommodate many more.’

‘Nevertheless, joking apart, I don’t think it is safe. The country’s pretty thoroughly stirred up just at present.’

‘You’re as bad as Aunt Katherine with her tattooed man! As for being afraid of these peasants, I know every soul in Castel Vivalanti, and they’re all adorable—with the exception of Gervasio’s relatives.’

‘If I were your uncle,’ he observed, ‘I should prefer a niece readier to take suggestions.’

‘I am ready to take his suggestions, but you’re not my uncle.’

‘No,’ said Sybert, ‘I am not; and–’

‘And what?’ Marcia asked.

He laughed.

‘I believe we declared an amnesty, did we not? Do you think it is best to reopen hostilities?’

‘It strikes me that there has been more or less light skirmishing in spite of the amnesty.’

‘At least there has been no serious damage done on either side. I would suggest, if heavy firing is to be recommenced, that we postpone it until the ride home.’

‘Very well. Let’s talk some more about the weather. It seems to be the only subject on which we can agree.’

Sybert bowed gravely.

‘It’s been rather rainy for the last week.’

‘Very.’

‘The villa must have been a little damp.’

‘Very.’

‘And rather monotonous?’

‘Very!’ Marcia laughed and gave the dialogue a new turn. ‘I spent the time reading.’

‘Indeed?’

‘The Egoist.’

‘Meredith? Don’t you find him a trifle—er—for rainy weather, you know?’

‘I found the Egoist,’ she returned, ‘a most suggestive work. It throws interesting side-lights on the men one knows.’

‘Oh, come, Miss Marcia,’ he remonstrated. ‘That’s hardly fair; you slander us.’

‘You mustn’t blame me—you must blame the author. It’s a man who wrote it.’

‘He should be regarded as a traitor. In case he is captured and brought into camp, I shall order him shot at sunrise.’

‘He doesn’t accuse all men of being Sir Willoughbys,’ she returned soothingly. ‘I hadn’t thought of you in exactly that connexion. If you choose to wear the coat, you have put it on yourself.’

‘We’ll say, then, that it doesn’t fit, and I’ll resemble the other fellow—the Daniel Deronda one—what’s his name, Whitfield, Whitford?’ (Whitford, it will be remembered, was the dark horse who came in at the finish and captured the heroine.)

Marcia laughed. ‘I really can’t say that the other fits any better. I’m afraid you’re not in the book, Mr. Sybert.’

They came to a fork in the roads and drew rein again.

‘Which way?’ he asked.

She paused and looked about. They were already far up in the mountains, and towering ahead, nearer and clearer now, on the crest of a still higher ridge, rose the old monastery she could see from her window. She pointed with her whip to the gaunt pile of grey stone against the sky.

‘Is that your destination?’ he asked.

‘Is it too far? I’ve been wanting to see it closer ever since we came to the villa.’

He studied the distance. ‘I should judge it’s about seven kilometres in a straight line, but there’s no telling how long the road takes to get there. We can try it, though; and if you’re not in a hurry to get home, we may reach it.’

‘At any rate, there’s nothing to prevent our turning back if we find it’s too far,’ she suggested.

‘Oh, yes; one can always turn back,’ he agreed.

‘One can always turn back.’ The words caught Marcia’s attention, and she repeated them to herself. They seemed to carry an inner meaning, and she commenced weighing anew her feelings toward Paul. Could she turn back? Was it not too late? No, if she were on the wrong road, the sooner the better; but was she on the wrong road? There were no guide-posts; the end was hidden by a turning. She rode on, forgetting to talk, with a shadow on her face and a serious light in her eyes.

‘Well?’ Sybert inquired, ‘would you like my advice?’

‘I’m afraid it’s not a matter you can help me with,’ she returned, with a quick laugh.

They pushed on farther up into the hills, between groves of twisted olive trees and sloping vineyards, through fields dyed blue and scarlet with forget-me-nots and poppies. All nature was green and glistening after the rain, and the mountain breeze blew fresh against their faces. Neither could be insensible to the influence of the day. Their talk was light and free and glancing—mere badinage; but it occasionally struck a deeper note, and holding it for an instant, half reluctantly let it go. Marcia had never known Sybert in this mood—she had not, as she realized, known him in any. In all their casual intercourse of the past few months they had scarcely exchanged a single idea. He was an unexplored country, and his character held for her the attraction of the unknown.

Sybert, on his side, glanced at her curiously from time to time as she flung back a quick reply. With him, first impressions died hard. He had first seen Marcia at a tea, the centre of a laughing group, with all the room paying court to her. She was pretty and attractive, faultlessly gowned, thoroughly at ease. He had, in his thirteen seasons, met many women who played many parts; and the somewhat cynical conclusion he had carried away from the experience was that if a woman be but young and fair she has the gift to know it. But as he watched her now he wondered suddenly if she were quite what he had thought her. It struck him that what he had regarded as over-sophistication was rather the pseudo-sophistication of youth; her occasional crudeness, but the crudeness that comes from lack of experience. She knew nothing of life outside the carefully closed confines of her own small world. And yet he recognized in her a certain reckless spirit of daring, of curiosity toward the world, that responded to a chord in his own nature. He had seen it the night they found Gervasio. It was in her face now as she galloped along against the wind, with her eyes raised to the half-ruined towers of the mediæval monastery. He had not been very lenient toward her, he knew; and her scarcely veiled antagonism had amused him. He felt now, as he watched her, a momentary impulse to draw her out, to mould the direction of her thoughts, to turn her face a new way.

After a wild gallop along the crest of a hill she drew up, laughing, to steady her hair, which threatened to come tumbling down about her ears. She dropped the rein loosely on the horse’s neck in order to leave both hands free, and Sybert reached over and took it.

‘See here, young lady,’ he remonstrated, ‘you’re going to take a cropper some day if you ride like that.’

She glanced back with a quick retort on her lips, but his expression disarmed her. He was not watching her with his usual critical look. She changed the words into a laugh.

‘Do you know what you make me feel like doing, Mr. Sybert? Giving Lil the reins and galloping down that hill there with my hands in the air.’

‘Perhaps I would better keep the reins in my own hands,’ was his cool proposition.

‘I never knew any one who could rouse so much latent antagonism in a person as you can! You never say a word but I feel like doing exactly the opposite.’

‘It’s well to know it. I shall frame my future suggestions accordingly.’

Marcia settled her hat and stretched out her hand. He returned the reins with a show of doubt.

‘Can I trust you to restrain your impulses?’ he inquired, with his eyes on the declivity before them.

She gathered up the reins, but made no movement to go on. Instead she half-turned in the saddle and looked behind.

They were on the shoulder of a mountain. Below them smaller foothills receded, tier below tier, until they sank imperceptibly into the level plain of the Campagna. Ahead of them the bare Sabines stretched in broken ridges, backed in the distance by two snow-peaks of the Apennines. Everywhere was the warmth of colouring, the brilliant hues of an Italian spring.

‘Italy is beautiful, isn’t it?’ Marcia asked simply.

‘Yes,’ he agreed; ‘Italy is cursed with beauty.’

She turned her eyes inquiringly from the landscape to him.

‘A nation of artists’ models!’ he exclaimed half contemptuously. ‘Because of their fatal good looks, the Italians can’t be allowed to be prosperous like any other people.’

‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, ‘their beauty is a compensation. They are poor, I know; but don’t you think they know how to be happy in spite of it?’

‘They are too easily happy. That’s another curse.’

‘But you surely don’t want them to be unhappy,’ she remonstrated. ‘Since they have to be poor, shouldn’t you rather see them contented?’

‘Certainly not. They have nothing to be contented with.’

‘But I don’t see that it makes any difference what you are contented with so long as you are contented.’

He looked at her with a half-smile.

‘Nonsense, Miss Marcia; you know better than that. When people are contented with their lot, does their lot ever improve? Do you think the Italian people ought to be happy? You have seen the way they live, or—no,’ he broke off, ‘you don’t know anything about it.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she returned. ‘I know they’re poor—horribly poor—but they seem to get a good deal of pleasure out of life in spite of it.’

He shook his head. ‘You can’t convince me with that argument. Have you never heard of a holy discontent? That’s what these people need—and,’ he added grimly, ‘some of them have got it.’

‘A holy discontent,’ she repeated. ‘What a terrible thing to have! It’s like living for revenge.’

‘Oh, well,’ he shrugged, ‘a man must live for something besides his three meals a day.’

‘He can live for his family,’ she suggested.

‘Yes, if he has one. Otherwise he must live for an idea.’

She glanced at him sidewise. She would have liked to ask what idea he lived for, but it was a question she did not dare to put. Instead she commented: ‘It’s queer, isn’t it, how the ideas that men used to live for have passed away? Chivalry and crusading and going to war and living as hermits—I really don’t see what’s left.’

‘The most of the old ideals are exploded,’ he agreed. ‘But we have new ones to-day—sufficiently bad—to meet the needs of the present century. A man can make a god of his business, for instance.’

Marcia shifted her seat a trifle uneasily as she thought of her father, who certainly did make a god of his business. It may have struck Sybert that it was not a propitious subject, for he added almost instantly—

‘And there’s always art to fall back upon.’

‘But you don’t object to that,’ she remonstrated.

‘No, it’s good enough in its way,’ he agreed; ‘but it doesn’t go very deep.’

‘Artists would tell you then that it isn’t the true art.’

‘I dare say,’ he shrugged; ‘but at best there are a good many truer things.’