"It seems to me that nobody is well any more. I don't believe Florence is a very healthy place. Or at least this house isn't. _I_ think it must be the drainage. If we keep on, I suppose we shall all have diphtheria. Don't you, Imogene?" "Yes," asserted the girl distractedly. "The girls had it at Vevay frightfully. And none of them were as strong afterward. Some of the parents came and took them away; but Madame Schebres never let mamma know. Do you think that was right?" "No; it was very wrong." "I suppose Mr. Colville will have it if we do. That is, if he keeps coming here. Is he coming any more?" "Yes; he's coming to-morrow morning." "_Is_ he?" A smile flickered over the rueful face. "What time is he coming?" "I don't know exactly," said Imogene, listlessly stirring her coffee. "Some time in the forenoon." "Do you suppose he's going to take us anywhere?" "Yes--I think so. I can't tell exactly." "If he asks me to go somewhere, will you tease mamma? She always lets you, Imogene, and it seems sometimes as if she just took a pleasure in denying me." "You mustn't talk so of your mother, Effie." "No; I wouldn't to _every_body. I know that she means for the best; but I don't believe she understands how much I suffer when she won't let me go with Mr. Colville. Don't you think he's about the nicest gentleman we know, Imogene?" "Yes; he's very kind." "And I think he's handsome. A good many people would consider him old-looking, and of course he isn't so young as Mr. Morton was, or the Inglehart boys; but that makes him all the easier to get along with. And his being just a little fat, that way, seems to suit so well with his character." The smiles were now playing across the child's face, and her eyes sparkling. "_I_ think Mr. Colville would make a good Saint Nicholas--the kind they have going down chimneys in America. I'm going to tell him, for the next veglione. It would be such a nice surprise." "No, better not tell him that," suggested Imogene. "Do you think he wouldn't like it?" "Yes." "Well, it would become him. How old do you suppose he is, Imogene? Seventy-five?" "What an idea!" cried the girl fiercely. "He's forty-one." "I didn't know they had those little jiggering lines at the corners of their eyes so quick. But forty-one is pretty old, isn't it? Is Mr. Waters--" "Effie," said her mother's voice at the door behind her, "will you ring for Giovanni, and tell him to bring me a cup of coffee in here?" She spoke from the _portiere_ of the _salotto_. "Yes, mamma. I'll bring it to you myself." "Thank you, dear," Mrs. Bowen called from within. The little girl softly pressed her hands together. "I _hope_ she'll let me stay up! I feel so excited, and I hate to lie and think so long before I get to sleep. Couldn't you just hint a little to her that I might stay up? It's Sunday night." "I can't, Effie," said Imogene. "I oughtn't to interfere with any of your mother's rules."