Ragna pushed out her underlip, but made no answer; she merely shut the door quite firmly behind her as she left the room. She descended the long stairs and crossed the Piazza, shaking her head at the eager _vetturini_ one or two of whom rattled after her cracking their whips, in hopes of a fare. She walked along resolutely, seemingly unconscious of the attention she attracted. She wore part of her thick golden hair down her back where it hung well below the waist, and the rest wreathed in massive plaits about her head. Men of the people often spoke to her as they passed, praising her "_cappelli d'oro_," calling her "_bella biondina_" and "_simpaticona_," but she had become accustomed to it, and took no notice of them. In her heart of hearts she was flattered by the simple homage which had nothing of either insolence or rudeness. She walked on enjoying the crisp air, for though the sun was warm, snow lay on the Albon Hills and the breath of it gave a keen edge to the breeze. She was in the Corso, standing, looking in a shop window, when she saw, reflected in the plate glass, a man who had passed her suddenly turn on his heel and come to her side; at the same moment a voice, strangely familiar, asked her in French: "Have I not the pleasure of addressing Mdlle. Andersen?" She turned and met the eyes of Prince Mirko. The colour left her cheeks and she felt a suffocating sensation at her heart. She could not answer him, her voice seemed strangled in her throat. The Prince continued: "Or is it Madame Something?" The red came back to her cheeks with a rush, and recovering the use of her tongue, she murmured, "Your Highness! Here?" "Yes," he answered, "I'm not a ghost, but I'm not a 'Highness' either,--I left that at home; I am plain 'Count Romanoff,' for the present. But you are still Mademoiselle Andersen?" She nodded affirmatively. "What shall I say? That I am glad? But that would be selfish--poor unfortunate man that you have not married!" He laughed easily. Ragna smiled; his playful assumption of comradeship put her at her ease; the ice was broken, it was a tacit resumption of their friendly relation before the far away evening of the kiss. Perhaps he had forgotten that episode, his cheerful friendliness of manner gave no intimation of any such recollection, and Ragna felt gladly assured that such was the case. The thought completed her composure, and she replied, "But neither have you married, Your--" "No! No!" he interrupted, "don't call me that! In the first place I am here incognito, and then I have always liked to think that to at least one charming person in the world, I am just myself, just 'Mirko.' We were comrades on the ship--let us begin again where we left off--shall we?"