Cynthia, in the office of Cook and Sons, stood surveying the paper with bright round eyes. So many francs--one thought in francs now, not in dollars--would purchase--what? Presents for home? Her luggage was already heavy with ’em. More clothes in Paris? She had, really, all she needed. A trip to some place farther on? Cynthia nibbled a pink finger tip and thought about that. Maybe never again, after this once, would she get to Europe. Maybe she’d be some day, a long time off, one of those little old ladies with shawls who sit in corners, well out of the draft, and talk with wistful reminiscence of “when I was in France--when I was in Italy.” Meaning of course the _one_ time they were there. Perhaps that wouldn’t be true, perhaps she’d come again in a year or two. But just the same she owed it to herself to get all she could out of this adventure while she was right here on the spot. The thief had proved to be just so many extra francs, dropped by the gods directly into her lap. Shouldn’t she, therefore, take it for a sign, cable home that she was waiting for a later boat, and go on with the adventure? “When I was in Italy,” the rhythm returned. Cynthia whirled to face the surprised young man behind the counter. “If you had a windfall of ... so many hundred or thousand francs,” she asked him, “where would you go--from here?” The young man grinned cheerfully and replied in meticulous English. “Madmoiselle, I should go to Italy.” “Bon!” Cynthia was enchanted that his advice should agree with her mental toss of a coin. “And where in Italy, please?” The young man grinned more widely and shuffled the papers on his counter. Here then was a customer for the tickets he had to sell. “Madmoiselle, I should go to the palio in Siena. It is the month for that. Madmoiselle has heard of the palio? Non? Oh, but then----,” and he proceeded to expound. Twenty minutes later Cynthia, walking on air, emerged from Cook and Sons. In her purse reposed a ticket for Italy. And the palio in Siena would be one of those things she could talk of, once she got to the age of relating, “When I was in Italy.” Five days later Cynthia, in Siena, pressed her small tip tilted nose flat against the glass of the dusty window, peering in. She had come again, for the third time today to see the frame. The lovely leather frame was right in the foreground propped against the glass, just as it had been yesterday and probably for weeks and weeks before that. Beside it lay other leather things; cigarette cases, glove boxes and portfolios, all beautiful. But it was the frame that interested Cynthia.