If Lady Lanswell had purposely designed the meeting between her son and the beautiful blonde to have taken place in the most picturesque spot in Europe, she could not have chosen better. The great _salon_ of the Palazzo Golza had, in former days, been used as a royal audience-room; the noblest princes in Rome had met there, and had given audience to the grandest nobles. It was a superb apartment; there was a background of purple tapestry from which the blonde loveliness of the English girl shone resplendent as a snow-drop on a black ground. There were many beautiful women present; the Princess Ainla, whose dark beauty was the wonder of all who saw it; the famous American belle, Miss Sedmon, whose auburn hair resembled that given by the old masters to the Madonna; but there was not one in that vast assembly who could vie with Lady Marion. The Countess of Lanswell, with her son, was one of the last to enter the _salon_; with one keen, comprehensive glance the countess took in, as it were, the whole situation; she saw the pure, proud face of Lady Erskine, saw that she was seated in the very place where her beauty was seen to the best advantage, then she took her seat, never even looking in that direction, and saying nothing to her son. It was just like laying a trap for a bird--he fell into it with the same helplessness. Lady Lanswell neither looked at Lady Erskine nor her son, yet she knew exactly the moment when his eyes first fell on her. She saw him start; then she sat quite still, waiting for the question she knew must follow. It came at last. "Mother," he said, "who is that beautiful girl?" My lady looked at him with languid eyes. "What beautiful girl, Lance? There are so many." "An English girl, I am sure. She has a string of pearls in her hair. Who can she be?" Still Lady Lanswell feigned ignorance. She looked on the wrong side of the room, and she affected not to understand where he meant, and when she could affect no longer, she said: "Do you mean Lady Marion Erskine, the young lady near Princess Golza?" "Yes, it must be Lady Erskine," he replied. "How beautiful she is, mother. She shines like a fair pearl with that background of dark tapestry. I heard some one say yesterday that she was in Rome. What a perfect face." My lady looked at it coldly. "Do you think so, Lance?" she said. "I thought that you gave the preference to dark beauties." His heart went back for one moment to the beautiful, passionate face he had seen by the mill stream. The gorgeous _salon_, the beautiful women, the peerless face of Lady Marion, the exquisite music, all floated away from him, and he was once more by the mill-stream, with Leone's face before him. So strong, so vivid was the memory, that it was with difficulty he refrained from calling the name aloud. My lady guessed by the sudden expression of pain on his face where his thoughts had gone. She recalled them.