‘No,’ said Marcia, ‘we are not.’ She turned up to her room and set about dressing in a very mingled frame of mind. She was still excited and hurt from her treatment in the village—and very much puzzled as to its motive. She was indignant at Sybert’s attitude, at his presuming to issue orders with no reason attached and expecting them to be obeyed. Instead of being grateful for his timely assistance, she was irritated that he should have happened by just in time to see the fulfilment of his warning. His superior ‘I told you so!’ attitude was exasperating to a degree. She ended by uniting her various wounded sensibilities into a single feeling of resentment toward him. The desire that was uppermost in her mind was a wish to pay him back, to make him feel sorry—though for exactly what, she was not quite clear. She hung up in the wardrobe the simple dinner-dress that Granton had laid out on the bed, and chose in its place a particularly dignified gown with a particularly long train. Having piled her hair on the top of her head, she added a diamond star and a necklace with a diamond pendant. She did not often wear jewels, but they were supposedly ‘American’ and irritating to a man of Sybert’s cosmopolitan sensibilities. ‘Quite stately,’ she murmured, critically surveying the effect in the mirror. ‘One might almost say matronly.’ As she started downstairs she was waylaid at the nursery door by a small figure in a white nightgown. ‘Cousin Marcia, what did you bwing me from ve festa?’ ‘Oh, Gerald! I brought you some chocolate and I left it in the carriage. But never mind, dear; it’s too late, anyway, for you to eat it to-night. I will send and get it, and you shall have it with your breakfast to-morrow morning. Be a good boy and go to sleep.’ She went downstairs with her mind bent upon chocolate, and crossed the empty salon to the little ante-room at the rear. She had opened the door and burst in before she realized that any one was inside; then before the apology had risen to her lips she had heard her uncle’s words. ‘Good heavens, Sybert, what can I do? You know my hands are tied. Willard Copley would let the last person in Italy starve if he could make one more dollar out of it!’ Marcia stood still, looking at her uncle in horror while the meaning of his words sank into her mind. He whirled around upon her. His face was whiter and sterner than she had ever seen it. ‘What do you want, Marcia?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why don’t you knock before you come into a room?’ Marcia’s face flushed hotly. ‘I am sorry, Uncle Howard; I was in a hurry, and didn’t know any one was in here.’ ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Marcia! I spoke hastily.’ She hesitated in the doorway and then faced him again. ‘I heard what you said. Will you please tell me what you mean?’