Eugenia occasionally thought seeing her thus, that _she_ never was allowed to relax in unpicturesque ease. It seemed to her that Mlle. Vallet and Josephine were the ones who were _really_ enjoying Rome! She worked so hard, she had paid the full price--and somehow the coin was of no value in this new country to which she was now transported, where she had not wanted to come, from which she would give anything to get away. She did not _like_ Mr. Crittenden--she never had liked him--oh, why wouldn't he just once look at her and see what was there, instead of talking over her head that queer talk of his? She put on her loveliest toilettes, things that made Josephine almost weep for pleasure, while Marise wore that same old gray dress day after day--she ruined her bronze shoes for him, stumbling around on foot over those horrible old ruins--how she loathed ruins! Why on earth did any one want to _pretend_ to like to look at them! History! That was what he was always talking about--history that she had always hated. Here it was again to plague her! How could she have guessed that he would care about history? She sat up now till all hours reading it, till Mlle. Vallet was afraid for her eyes, and yet he didn't seem to notice when she said something about it. He just took it for granted, as if she were a man. What did Marise _want_ of him anyhow? She couldn't possibly expect to _marry_ him ... neither of them had a cent of money. She ought to think of that, to think what was best for him. It was selfish, self-centered of Marise. A man like Neale ought of course to marry money. When she thought what _she_ could do for him! Married to her he could have exactly the life he was meant for--travel, leisure, ease--! What was it about Marise that he liked? She could do everything better than Marise now, except play the piano, and it evidently wasn't _that_ he cared for in her, because the afternoon they had all gone to the Visconti recital, he had listened just as intently to the men students and the other girls as to Marise. And when Marise asked him afterwards what music he liked best he told her bluntly the Bach that Professor Visconti himself had played, and Marise had said she did too. She hadn't seemed to realize what an affront to her that was. _Why_ did Marise care so much about him? Why did anybody? Eugenia couldn't understand. She couldn't understand. Her throat had a hard aching lump in it because she couldn't understand. "A loose soft coiffure for to-night," murmured Josephine dreamily to herself, happily twisting together the beautiful golden strands, "and the pale-blue mousseline de soie--not the evening-dress!" she was shocked at the idea, though nobody had suggested it, "the high-necked one with the little myosotis embroidered on the ruffles." Josephine worshipped that dress.