The second time that I saw Laura di san Marzano was nearly four years afterwards, in the hall of the Majestic Hotel, at Lucerne. I had thought of her, at intervals, and had no difficulty in recognising her, in spite of the difference between eight years old and twelve. She was tall and very slim, and the set of her dark head on her straight shoulders was just the same. Her black hair now fell in a long plait to her waist, but she still wore the straight, short fringe that suited her du Maurier profile. It was late afternoon--tea-time, and the hall was full of people, and noisy. Laura sat motionless, but somehow, one felt, very attentive, beside a beautifully-gowned and jewelled and painted woman, who was talking to half a dozen men. Mama? She looked very young to have a child of Laura’s age. Then I saw that Laura’s green silk frock was absurdly short, and made in a babyish style, that matched the huge bow of green satin ribbon unnecessarily fastened over one ear. My pupil, a nearly grown-up one, was late, and as I waited for her, I watched Laura. Presently our eyes met. At once recognition leapt into hers, and she smiled at me, and bowed. I returned the salutation--with infinitely less grace, as I knew in my middle-class British self-consciousness--and wondered whether she would come and speak to me. Later on she did so, when the group round mama was at its noisiest. “How do you do, Miss Arbell?” There was not the faintest hesitation over my name. “I used to see you often in the Borghese Gardens, in Rome, and once we talked together. I hope you remember?” “I remember very well,” said I, “but I am surprised at your doing so. You were so very young then, and you must have met so many people since.” “I never forget people,” said Laura simply. “You left Rome suddenly, didn’t you?” I continued. “I was there for nearly a month after our meeting, but I never saw you in the gardens again.” Laura shook her head slightly. “I can’t remember,” she admitted. “Very likely we left suddenly. One does that so often. The management of the hotel becomes intolerable, or tiresome acquaintances appear--and then the simplest thing is to pack up and go elsewhere.” She spoke so evidently from experience that one could but accept her strange, rootless, attitude as part of her natural equipment. We talked for a little while, and she told me, or I deduced, that since the Roman days she had been a great deal in Paris--(“I adore the Opera there, but the theatres not much”)--and then in New York, with mama. She was to spend the next few years with mama. Where?