"Oh, what a beautiful view!" she said in a low tone to Neale, looking down over the cypresses of the Palatine to the city, like a heap of uncut jewels, dully, deeply colored, under the light of the setting sun. "You know how to choose a table, I see!" she added admiringly, in an intimate tone. She wondered if perhaps he had come out in the afternoon to reserve it. She noticed the screen now, and looked at him gratefully, really touched. The waiter arrived with the soup. "Yes, it is a fine view," said Neale, rousing himself. "A very fine view indeed. That's the Colosseum over there, isn't it?" "Yes," said Eugenia, "and that's the Arch of Titus." "That's the one with the awfully bad bas-reliefs, isn't it?" said Neale. "Oh, _no_," corrected Eugenia, "the one with the poor sculptures is the arch of Septimius Severus. The arch of Titus is the _good_ one, you know, with the bas-reliefs of the Hebrews." "Oh, yes, of course. You're right," admitted Neale. Eugenia thought to herself triumphantly, "Ah, it's not only Marise who can talk history with him!" She was very happy, happier than she ever remembered feeling. Everything had played into her hands. Everything was going perfectly. She had succeeded in getting him into just the sort of restaurant where she could show to the best advantage. She was eating her soup with a lively appreciation of its excellence and found herself perfectly able to keep up an artistic and historic conversation with Neale; but she was also acutely aware through the pores of her skin that every woman around her was jealously scrutinizing her costume. She expanded joyously, like a cut flower set in water. How _well_ everything was going! Certainly Neale must be aware how he was being envied. She made a remark about the style of the gigantic statues on St. John Lateran, visible in the distance, and turned her arm slightly so that her sleeve would hang better. Neale answered the remark about the statues on St. John Lateran and continued to look in that direction as though he were thinking about them. He was saying to himself, "Five days since she left! Only five days! God! How am I going to live through any more of them. How many more sleepless nights! Will she ever get back!" "Yes, isn't it warm to-night?" said Eugenia, seeing that he was wiping his wet forehead with his handkerchief. "Unseasonable, very," agreed Neale. He had turned sick with his recurrent panic lest she _never_ come back. He ought to have taken that next train and gone right after her, as he wanted to. The waiter brought the fish. It was not what Neale had ordered, but a more expensive variety. He looked somewhat apprehensively at the gentleman as he offered it, but the gentleman did not seem to notice. On this the waiter disappeared and brought back a bottle of wine, not the variety Neale had bargained for. "Have you any news from Miss Allen?" asked Neale.