The next day—it was just a week before their proposed trip to the Tyrol—Marcia accompanied her uncle into Rome for the sake of one or two important errands which might not be intrusted to a man’s uncertain memory. Mr. Copley found himself unready to return to the villa on the train they had planned to take, and, somewhat to Marcia’s consternation, he carried her off to the Embassy for tea. She mounted the steps with a fast-beating heart. Would Laurence Sybert be there? She had not so much as seen him since the night of her birthday ball, and the thought of facing him before a crowd, with no chance to explain away that awful moment by the fountain, was more than disconcerting.

Her first glance about the room assured her that he was not in it, and the knowledge carried with it a mingled feeling of relief and disappointment. The air was filled with an excited buzz of conversation, the talk being all of riots and rumours of riots. Marcia drifted from one group to another, and finally found herself sitting on a window-seat beside a woman whose face was familiar, but whom for the moment she could not place.

‘You don’t remember me, Miss Copley?’ her companion smiled.

Marcia looked puzzled. ‘I was trying to place you,’ she confessed. ‘I remember your face.’

‘One day, early this spring, at Mr. Dessart’s studio——’

‘To be sure! The lady who writes!’ she laughed. ‘I never caught your name.’

‘And the worst gossip in Rome? Ah, well, they slandered me, Miss Copley. One is naturally interested in the lives of the people one is interested in—but for the others! They may make their fortunes and lose them again, and get married, and elope and die, for all the attention I ever give.’

Marcia smiled at her concise summary of the activities of life, and put her down as a Frenchwoman.

‘And the villa in the hills?’ she asked. ‘How did it go? And the ghost of the Wicked Prince? Did Monsieur Benoit paint him?’

‘The ghost was a grievous disappointment. He turned out to be the butler.’

‘Ah—poor Monsieur Benoit! He has many disappointments. C’est triste, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Many disappointments?’ queried Marcia, quite in the dark.

‘The Miss Roystons, Mr. Dessart’s relatives,’ pursued the lady; ‘they are friends of yours. I met them at the Melvilles’ a few weeks ago. They are charming, are they not?’

‘Very,’ said Marcia, wondering slightly at the turn the conversation had taken.

‘And this poor Monsieur Benoit—he has gone, all alone, to paint moonlight in Venice. Ce que c’est que l’amour!’

‘Ah!’ breathed Marcia. She was beginning to have an inkling. Had he been added to the collection? It was too bad of Eleanor!

‘Miss Royston is charming, like all Americans,’ reiterated the lady. ‘But, I fear, a little cruel. Mais n’importe. He is young, and when one is young one’s heart is made of india-rubber, is it not so?’ Her eyes rested on Marcia for a moment.

Marcia’s glance had wandered toward the door. Laurence Sybert had just come in and joined the group about her uncle, and she noted the fact with a quick thrill of excitement. Would he come and speak to her? What would he say? How would he act? She felt a strong desire to study his face, but she was aware that the eyes of ‘the greatest gossip in Rome’ were upon her, and she rallied herself to answer. Monsieur Benoit was commiserated for the third time.

‘Ah, well,’ finished the lady, philosophically, ‘perhaps it is for the best. A young man avec le coeur brisÉ is far more interesting than one who is heart-whole. There is that Laurence Sybert over there.’ She nodded toward the group on the other side of the room. ‘For the last ten years, when the forestieri in Rome haven’t had anything else to talk about, they’ve talked about him. And all because they think that under that manner of his he’s carrying around a broken heart for the pretty little Contessa Torrenieri.’

Marcia laughed lightly. ‘Mr. Sybert at least carries his broken heart easily. One would never suspect its presence.’

The lady’s eyes rested upon her an appreciable instant before she answered: ‘Che vuole? People must have something to talk about, and a good many girls—yes, and with dots—have sighed in vain for a smile from his dark eyes. Between you and me, I don’t believe the man’s got any heart—either broken or whole. But I mustn’t be slandering him,’ she laughed. ‘I remember he’s a friend at Casa Copley.’

‘Mr. Sybert is my uncle’s friend; the rest of us see very little of him,’ Marcia returned as she endeavoured to think of a new theme. Her companion, however, saved her the trouble.

‘And were you not surprised at Mr. Dessart’s desertion?’

‘Mr. Dessart’s desertion?’ Marcia repeated the question with a slight quiver of the eyelids.

‘Exchanging Rome for Pittsburg. You Americans do things so suddenly! One loses one’s breath.’

‘But his father was ill and they sent for him.’

‘Yes; but the surprising part is that he goes for good. The pictures and carvings and curios are packed; there is a card in the window saying the studio is for rent—he is giving up art to mine coal instead.’

Marcia laughed. ‘It is a seven-league step from art to coal,’ she acknowledged. ‘I had thought myself that he was an artist to the end.’

‘Ah—he was an artist because he was young, not because he was called, and I suppose he got tired of the play. The real artist for you—it is that poor young man painting moonlight in Venice.’ The lady tapped Marcia’s arm gently with her fan. ‘But you and I know, Miss Copley, that Paul Dessart never went back to America just from homesickness; when a young man hasn’t reached thirty yet, you may be pretty sure of finding a woman behind most of his motives.’

Marcia had the uncomfortable feeling that the lady’s eyes were fixed upon her with a speculative light in their depths. She endeavoured to look disinterested as she again cast about for a more propitious topic. Glancing up, she saw that her uncle, accompanied by Laurence Sybert and Mr. and Mrs. Melville, was crossing the room in their direction. Sybert, who was laughing and chatting easily with Mrs. Melville, apparently did not feel that there was any awkwardness in the moment. He delivered a cordially indifferent bow which was evidently meant to be divided between Marcia and her companion. After a moment or so of general greetings, Marcia found herself talking with Mrs. Melville, while her uncle and the consul-general still discussed riots, and the lady who wrote appropriated Sybert.

‘We are sorry to hear you are leaving the villa so early, though I suppose we shall all be following in a week or so,’ said Mrs. Melville. ‘One clings pretty closely to the shady side of the street even now. Aren’t these riots dreadful?’ she rambled on. ‘Poor Laurence Sybert is working himself thin over them. It is the only subject one hears nowadays.’

Marcia achieved an intelligent reply, while at the same time she found herself listening to the conversation on the other side. To her intense discomfort, it was still of Paul Dessart.

‘Yes, I heard that he had been suddenly called home; that was hard luck,’ said Sybert quietly.

‘Between you and me, Paul Dessart never gave up art and went back to Pittsburg because he was tired of Rome. As I told Miss Copley, when a young man decides to settle down and be serious, you may mark my words there’s a woman in the case. Oh, I knew it all the time.’ She lowered her tone. ‘We’ll be reading of an engagement in the Paris Herald one of these days.’

‘I dare say, as usual, you’re right,’ Sybert said dryly; while Marcia, inwardly raging and outwardly smiling, gave ear to Mrs. Melville again.

‘Oh, did I tell you,’ Mrs. Melville asked, ‘that we are coming out to the villa next Saturday for “week-end”? It’s a long-standing invitation, that we’ve never found a chance to accept. But it’s so charming out there that we can’t bear to miss it, and so we are throwing over all our other engagements in order to get out this week before you break up.’

Marcia murmured some polite phrases while she tried to catch the gist of the conversation on the other side. It was not of Paul Dessart, she reassured herself. The woman who wrote was narrating an adventure with some ‘bread-tickets’ of the anti-begging society, and the two men—Melville and Sybert—were chaffing her uncle. The point of the story appeared to be against him. He finally broke away, and with a glance at his watch turned back to his niece.

‘Well, Marcia, if we are to catch that six-o’clock train, I think it is time that we were off.’

Sybert accompanied them to the door, talking riots to her uncle, while she went on ahead, feeling forgotten and overlooked. Melville joined them again in the vestibule, and the three fell to discussing barricades and soldiers until Copley, with another look at his watch, laughingly declared that they must run.

Sybert for the first time, Marcia thought, gave any sign of being aware of her presence.

‘Well, Miss Marcia,’ he said, turning toward her with a friendly smile. ‘Your uncle says that you are talking of going back to America next winter. That is too bad, but we shall hope to see a little of you in the autumn before you leave. You are going to the Tyrol for the summer, I hear. That will be pleasant, at least.’

‘You talk as if America were a terrible hardship,’ said Marcia, taking her tone from him.

Sybert laughed, with his old shrug. ‘Ah, well, it depends on where one’s interests are, I suppose.’

She suddenly flushed again, with the thought that he was referring to Paul Dessart, and she plunged blindly into another subject to cover her confusion.

‘Did Uncle Howard tell you that we have decided to take Gervasio with us for the summer? He wanted to find a home for him in Rome; I wanted to take him with us; Aunt Katherine hadn’t made up her mind until Gerald cried at the thought of parting with him, and, as usual, Gerald’s tears decided the matter.’

‘It was a most fortunate whipping for Gervasio the night that we drove by,’ he returned as he held out his hand. ‘Well, Miss Marcia, as you break up next week, I shall probably not see you again. I hope that you will have a delightful summer.’

Marcia shook hands smilingly, with her heart sunk fathoms deep.

He followed them to the carriage for a last word with her uncle.

‘You’d better change your mind, Sybert, and come out to the villa Saturday night with the Melvilles,’ Copley called as the carriage started.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s too much excitement elsewhere for me to afford a vacation just now,’ and he bowed a smiling good-bye to Marcia.