It was the one frame in all Siena, which, after all is a city of leather frames, for the photograph of Chick which she had received in the mail in Marseilles. And nothing short of perfection was worthy of holding that picture. In it the face of Chick squarely fronted the beholder, the hair of Chick was fluffy and rumpled, as it had been when the Academy bunch had given him his nickname, the eyes looked straight and truly into the eyes of Cynthia, and the quirky mouth seemed just about to say: “Hi, Cynthia ... Darling!” The frame was wine colored, the leather as soft as old satin, and all around its edge was a delicate gold border of conventional ivy leaves, with, next to it, a band of oak leaves and tiny acorns, and inside, next to the glass a tiny frail beading. All very simple but it was the color and the workmanship that held Cynthia’s eye. She sighed. She knew to a lira just exactly what was in her purse, knew that she mustn’t afford the frame, no matter how low the price might be. Nevertheless she pushed open the paint scarred old door in the stone housefront and entered the little shop. It was, as she had expected, dim and dusty within. The proprietor, an aged little Italian with the down-drooping nose of one who works in delicate detail, was busy with another customer. She also, was an American, small and dainty, expensively clad, older than she appeared. Cynthia smiled to herself. After two months in Europe she knew the type very well. “Too much, too much!” she was saying, in Italian over and over again, and gestured prettily with a gloved hand toward a small pile of cigarette cases lying on the counter. Unexpectedly then she turned to Cynthia. “You look as though you could speak Italian, my dear. Do ask him if he will give me a better price for the whole dozen. I want them for bridge prizes, next winter.” Cynthia was willing to try, and struggled with her scant store of the language. The proprietor shrugged his shoulders and spread expressive Italian fingers wide. “Yes, yes, eight, ten lira less perhaps,” he smiled. And Cynthia knew that all along he had expected to take less than his original price. But the pretty lady was pleased. “Wrap them up,” she ordered the man, in the loud tone so often employed to the foreigner who seems not to understand, as though by mere volume of sound one could impress one’s meaning.