She looked rather puzzled. “I don’t know Paris well,” she observed apologetically. “We were only there once before, when mama was with us. It was a nice hotel, I thought, but noisy. This one--the Grand--is better. Have you been much in Paris?” “Not since I was at school there. My French was acquired in Paris,” I added, automatically. One says that kind of thing so often, to please the parents. “Mademoiselle aime parler francais, hein?” she enquired, with a little smile. Her French was as perfect as her Italian, or her English; and it was evidently natural to her to speak either language. “Are you English?” I could not refrain from asking her. “My papa is Italian--mama was half English, and half French.” Was? Then her mother must be dead. That would account for the empty limousine, and the strange independence of the child. “Mama is in New York, now, we think,” she remarked. “I am to join her when I am ten; that was arranged for, in the deed of separation.” “Separation?” said I. “There is no divorce in Italy,” said the little creature, shrugging her shoulders. “Papa is a Catholic, though not, of course _pratiquant_. They have been separated since I was seven.” “Then who--who----” I wanted to ask who looked after her, but such a form of words seemed singularly inappropriate. “Who looks after your papa’s house?” I found at last. “We are in hotels, most of the time, papa and I, and my maid, Carlotta, but in the holidays--_les grandes vacances_--we go to the country somewhere--_villegiatura_--and there is a lady then, always.” Her grave eyes looked at me. “A different one,” she explained, “each time.” Her very complete understanding of the status held by the “ladies” was implicit in her manner, but that struck me less poignantly than did her philosophical acceptance of all that they stood for. The grey limousine came into sight, and she made an amiable little sign to the chauffeur. “I must go now. It doesn’t _do_ to keep the _auto_ waiting.” In her grave little voice, was all the circumspection of the child that has learnt to fend for itself, that knows by experience that it will only be tolerated so long as it gives no trouble, runs counter to no prejudices, is guilty of no indiscretions. “It has been so pleasant to talk to someone English. Good-bye Miss----?” Her little pause was exactly that of a grown-up person, before an unknown or unremembered name. And what precocity of discernment had told her that “Miss” was the suitable prefix? “Miss Arbell,” said I. “Tell me your name before you go.” “Laura di san Marzano.” She pronounced Laura in the Italian way--_Lah-o-ra_. When I held out my hand, she kissed it, as Italian children do, and after she had climbed to the driving-seat, she waved to me, before turning the grey car down the hill. I looked for her every morning after that, but she never came to the Borghese Gardens again. II