When she had drank her tea and was warm, Mrs. Hart began to look around her with some curiosity. Everything was old and faded, but rich in its way, and telling of a past when the Costellos held their heads among the best in the city. The count had not deceived her in that respect. His palace might be no better than a barn, but his family, though poor, was all he had represented it to be. He, too, was very kind, and in his own house assumed a dignity he had before lacked. A few of his acquaintances called, and were especially kind to Connie, who, had she chosen, might have been a belle in the Costello society, but she disliked the Italians. She disliked Genoa and the dark, dull old house, with the punctilious etiquette the count required from his wife and herself and his three servants, who were required to do the work of six. Occasionally she had bits of news from the outside world, but no letter reached her, and she ceased at last to expect one. Deserted, was the bitter thought always present with her, and the soft air of Italy failed to bring back the color to her cheeks and the brightness to her eyes, and thus the winter wore on until March, when they went to Florence, where they found the Costello villa in better repair than the palace in Genoa had been. There were many Americans in the city, and Connie always scanned them curiously, hoping for a face she never found, either there or elsewhere during the summer, a part of which was spent in Paris and a part in Switzerland, but not at Interlaken. The countess did not care to go there, and for Connie there were so many sad memories connected with it that she loathed the thought of seeing it again. The count was fond of travel, and as his wife’s money held out they moved from place to place during the autumn and winter, until the first of February found them again in Genoa, nearly a year after they had left it.