Marcia dropped into the chair and leaned her head on the back. She felt dazed and bewildered. Never before had she been treated with anything but friendliness and courtesy. Why had the people suddenly turned against her? What had she done that they should hate her? In the back of the room she heard Sybert explaining something in a low tone to Giuseppe, and she caught, the words, ‘she does not know.’ ‘_Poverina_, she does not know,’ the woman murmured. Sybert came across with a glass of wine. ‘Here, Marcia, drink this,’ he said peremptorily. She received the glass with a hand that trembled, and took one or two swallows and then set it down. ‘It’s nothing. I shall be all right in a moment. They pressed around me so close that I couldn’t breathe.’ The wine brought some colour back to her face, and after a few minutes she rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry to have made so much commotion. I feel better now; let’s go back to the carriage.’ Skirting the piazza, they returned to the porta by a narrow side-street, the boys behind still shouting after, but none approaching within reach of Sybert’s stick. They had regained the carriage and reached the bottom of the hill before either of them spoke. Marcia was the first to break the silence. ‘What is it, Mr. Sybert, that I don’t know?’ ‘A good many things, apparently,’ he said coolly. ‘For one, you don’t know how to take a piece of friendly advice. I told you this afternoon that the country-side was too stirred up to be safe, and I think you might have paid just a little attention to my warning. Respectable Italian girls don’t run around the streets alone, and they particularly don’t choose the evening of a festa for a solitary walk.’ ‘If you have quite finished, Mr. Sybert, will you answer my question?—Why do they call me “Signorina Wheat”?’ He was apparently engaged with his thoughts and did not hear. ‘Mr. Sybert, I asked you a question.’ ‘Why do they shout “Wheat”?’ His tone was still sharp. ‘Well, I suppose because just at present wheat is a burning question in Italy, and the name of Copley is somewhat unpleasantly connected with it. Your uncle has just bought a large consignment of American wheat, which is on its way to Italy now. His only object is to relieve the suffering—he loses on every bushel he sells—but, as is usually the case with disinterested people, his motives have been misjudged. The newspapers have had a great deal to say about the matter, and the people, with their usual gratitude toward their benefactors, have turned against him.’ ‘Mr. Sybert, you are not telling me the truth.’ Sybert did not see fit to answer this charge; he folded his arms and leaned against the cushions, with his eyes fixed on the two brass buttons on the back of Giovanni’s coat. And Marcia, the colour back in her cheeks, sat staring at the roadway with angry eyes. Neither spoke again till the carriage came to a stand before the loggia. ‘Well, Miss Marcia, are we friends?’ said Sybert.