“Goodbye,” waved Cynthia from the doorway. Nice Mr. Lewis. It had been fun, the tea, and such an appreciative audience--and the two dollars. She opened her purse, just for the comfort of seeing good United States greenbacks again, shook them out of the rumple and gazed at them, startled. Not two one dollar bills, but two for ten dollars each. Twenty good bucks! Oh gosh ... oh glory ... oh joy! “Miss British Isles can wait,” said Cynthia aloud to the deserted street and turned rapidly in a direction opposite to the _pensione_. She knew somehow that her luck would hold, her marvelous luck of the day, and that even as late as this sunset hour, with the rosy housefronts of Siena still holding their perpetual sunset glow, the little man in the frame shop would still be there. * * * * * Chick that night was no longer propped limply, somewhat forlornly, between the dusty, green tinged mirror and the box of cold cream, but smiled gaily, resplendently, festively, in a frame of wine colored leather with a border of acorns and gold beading. Cynthia bent over and bestowed a brief kiss on the chilly glass. “Hi, Chick ... Darling,” she laughed. And turned off the light. CHAPTER 8 _Venice_ ALL IS NOT LOST Cynthia was sleepy when she stumbled into the station at Genoa. She hadn’t been too sure that the hotel keeper would wake her in time to get the train for Venice. So all night long she had dozed fitfully, waking to sit bolt upright and flash on the light to see her watch, then finally been waked from a sound sleep at five, just an hour before train time by the sharp summoning knuckles of the garçon on her bedroom door. And it must have been because her eyes were still blurred with sleep that she took the _rapide_ instead of the express for Venice. They were standing directly opposite each other, and both of them had “Venezia” in letters a foot high along the carriages. An Italian _rapide_ does not necessarily move with great rapidity. By the best of expresses it is a long day’s journey across the width of Italy and by the time she had discovered, with the half dozen native phrases that she knew, that she had taken the wrong train it was too late to do anything about it. They were already an hour east of Genoa. “What time do we get to Venezia,” she begged. “Venezia ... _Venezia_. ...” “Si...si...si...si...si,” hissed the beaming conductor as he punched her ticket. “Yes, but what time? Tempo? Tempo?” she pleaded. The conductor shook his head and shrugged. Probably mad, this pretty signorina. But he had no English, and what did she in third class, in that expensive dress of real silk, with leather shoes upon her feet, a hat, and a suitcase also of veritable leather? He gave it up and sauntered down the crowded aisle between the wooden benches to examine the biglietto of a wizened little great-grandmother traveling, with six great-grandchildren, to Milan.