‘You don’t really mean that he is an anarchist?’ Marcia demanded. ‘I give him up, Miss Copley.’ The young man shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands in a gesture purely Italian. ‘Are you talking politics?’ asked Mrs. Copley as she joined the group in company with Mr. and Mrs. Melville. ‘Always politics,’ laughed her niece—‘or is it Mr. Sybert now?’ ‘They’re practically interchangeable,’ said Dessart. ‘And did I hear you calling him an anarchist, Miss Marcia?’ Melville demanded. She repudiated the charge with a laugh. ‘I’m afraid Mr. Dessart’s the guilty one.’ ‘Here, here! that will never do! Sybert’s a special friend of mine. I can’t allow you to be accusing him of anything like that.’ ‘A little applied anarchy wouldn’t be out of place,’ the young man returned. ‘I feel tempted to use some dynamite myself when I see the way this precious government is scattering statues of Victor Emmanuel broadcast through the land.’ ‘If you are going to get back into politics,’ said Mrs. Copley, rising, ‘I fear we must leave. I know from experience that it is a long subject.’ The two turned away, escorted to the carriage by Dessart and the Frenchman, while the rest of the group resettled themselves in the empty places. The woman who wrote listened a moment to the badinage and laughter which floated back through the open door; then, ‘Mr. Dessart’s heiress is very attractive,’ she suggested. ‘Why Mr. Dessart’s?’ Melville inquired. ‘Perhaps I was a little premature,’ she conceded—‘though, I venture to prophesy, not incorrect.’ ‘My dear lady,’ said Mrs. Melville impressively, ‘you do not know Mrs. Copley. Her niece is more likely to marry an Italian prince than a nameless young artist.’ ‘She’s no more likely to marry an Italian prince than she is a South African chief,’ her husband affirmed. ‘Miss Marcia is a young woman who will marry whom she pleases—though,’ he added upon reflection, ‘I am not at all sure it will be Paul Dessart.’ ‘She might do worse,’ said his wife. ‘Paul is a nice boy.’ ‘Ah—and she might do better. I’ll tell you exactly the man,’ he added, in a burst of enthusiasm, ‘and that is Laurence Sybert.’ The suggestion was met by an amused smile from the ladies and a shrug from the sculptor. ‘My dear James,’ said Mrs. Melville, ‘you may be a very good business man, but you are no match-maker. That is a matter you would best leave to the women. As for your Laurence Sybert, he hasn’t the ghost of a chance—and he doesn’t want it.’ ‘I’m doubting he has other fish to fry just now,’ threw out the sculptor. ‘Sybert’s all right,’ said Melville emphatically. The woman who wrote laughed as she rose. ‘It will be an interesting matter to watch,’ she announced; ‘but you may mark my words that our host is the man.’ CHAPTER II