‘He has an awfully interesting history. We met him at a reception last week, and Mr. Melville told me all about him afterward. He was born in Genoa—his father was United States consul—and he was brought up in the midst of the excitement during the fight for Italian unity. Politics was in the air he breathed. He knows more about the Italians than they know about themselves. He speaks the language like a native, and he never——’ ‘Oh, I know what Mr. Melville told you,’ Marcia interrupted. ‘He likes him.’ ‘Don’t most people?’ ‘Ask your cousin about him. Ask Mr. Carthrope, the English sculptor. Ask anybody you please—barring my uncle—and see what you’ll hear.’ ‘What shall I hear?’ ‘A different story from every person.’ ‘Well, really! He’s worth knowing.’ ‘I detest him!’ Marcia made the statement as much from habit as conviction. Eleanor regarded her a moment rather narrowly, and then she observed: ‘I will tell you one thing, Marcia Copley; and that is, that interesting men are mighty scarce in this world. I don’t remember ever having met more than half a dozen.’ ‘And you’ve had experience,’ suggested Marcia. ‘Nine seasons.’ ‘Who were they—the half-dozen?’ ‘One was a Kansas politician who wrote poetry. A most amazing mixture of crudeness and tact—remarkably bright in some ways, but unexpectedly lacking in others. He’d never read _Hamlet_; said he’d heard of it, though. Another was a super-civilized Russian. I met him in Cairo. He spoke seven languages, and didn’t find any of them full enough to express his thoughts. Another was——’ ‘The engineer,’ suggested Marcia. She had heard of the engineer both from Eleanor and her mother. ‘Yes,’ agreed Eleanor, ‘the chief engineer on the Claytons’ yacht. I cruised around with them two years ago on the Mediterranean, and the only interesting man on board was the engineer. He was English, and he’d lived in India and Burma, and in—oh, hundreds of nameless places. I couldn’t get much out of him at first; he was pretty shy. English people are, you know. But when he saw that one was really interested he would tell the most astonishing tales. I didn’t have much chance to talk to him—he didn’t appeal to mamma. That was one of the times that mamma was impetuous,’ she added with a laugh. ‘Instead of keeping on to Port Said with the boat, we disembarked at Alexandria and ran up to Cairo for the rest of the winter. It was there I met the Russian. He was stopping at _Shepheard’s_.’ Eleanor paused, and her gaze became reminiscent as she sat toying with the little Etruscan perfume-bottle. ‘And the others?’ Marcia prompted.