I glanced covertly at Penelope. Despite the tone of formality in which she addressed me she seemed quite content to sit here weaving hieroglyphics with the point of her parasol, for I noticed that she was smiling, unconscious, perhaps, that I was studying her face. A while ago I had stood a little in awe of Penelope, but it was an awe inspired by her surroundings rather than by her. Going from Miss Minion's to face the critical eye of her pompous English butler was itself an ordeal; to Mrs. Bannister I was a poor young man whom it was a form of charity to patronize; the great library, the carved mantel, the portrait, the heavy silver on the tea-table, these were emblems of another world than mine. But here in this piazzetta, with the broad Italian landscape before us, those days of awkward constraint were in the far past. This quiet Penelope at my side contentedly tracing circles in the sand was, after all, the simple, kindly Penelope of the days in the valley. I had no fear of her. If she tossed her head disdainfully, I could fancy the blue ribbon bobbing there again and smile to myself as I recalled the morning when we had galloped together out of the mountains on the mule. There were questions which I wanted answered, and I dared to ask them. "Penelope," I said, "I am glad to hear that Mrs. Bannister is happily married. Now tell me of my friend Talcott--what of him?" Penelope sat up very straight and her head tossed. "David, I should think that one subject which you would avoid." "I confess myself consumed with merely idle curiosity," I returned. "Talcott once made a great deal of trouble for me. Don't you remember the day on the Avenue when you cut me?" "And if I had met you here a year ago, David, I should not have known you," she said severely. "A woman resents being made a fool of, nor can she easily forgive one who exposes the sham in which she has a part. The fault was mine and Mrs. Bannister's, and back of it there was something else." "Something else?" I questioned. Penelope did not answer. She had turned from me to the parasol and the sand. I repeated the question. "Herbert Talcott is married--a year now," she said in a measured tone. "His wife was a Miss Carmody--the daughter of Dennis Carmody, who owns the Sagamore--or something like that--mine." A pause. Her head tossed. "He recovered very quickly." "But the something else?" I insisted. "There are some things which you will never understand," she answered carelessly.