Copley cast an annoyed glance at Sybert, who was standing in the embrasure by the window with his hands in his pockets and his eyes bent upon the floor. Sybert glanced up with a little frown, and then with a half-perceptible shrug turned away and looked out of the window. ‘I might as well tell you, I suppose—you appear to be hearing it from other sources. Your father has been the originator this spring of a very successful corner in wheat. He is, as you know, a keen judge of markets; and foreseeing that wheat for a number of reasons was likely to be scarce, he and one or two of his friends have purchased the whole of the visible supply. As Italy has had to import more than usual—and pay for it in gold when she hasn’t much but paper at her command—you can readily see that it places her in an awkward position. America is a great country, Marcia, when a single one of her citizens can bankrupt a whole kingdom.’ ‘You don’t mean, Uncle Howard,’ she cried, aghast, ‘that my father has caused the wheat famine?’ ‘There may be one or two minor causes, but I think he is deserving of most of the credit. The name of Copley, I assure you, is not beloved in Italy just now.’ ‘And that is what the boys meant when they shouted “Grano”?’ ‘Oh, it’s no secret. We’re celebrities in our small way. Two continents are ringing with the name of the American Wheat King, and we come in for a share of his fame. When you think about it,’ he added, ‘there is something beautifully fitting about our taking Villa Vivalanti this spring. We appear to be American editions of the “Bad Prince.” I fancy the old gentleman turned in his grave and smiled a trifle when I signed the lease.’ ‘But, Uncle Howard, he doesn’t understand. He does it like a mathematical problem, just to show what he can do, just for the pleasure of winning. Why don’t you write to him? Why didn’t you tell him?’ ‘Tell him!’ Copley laughed. ‘You have not been acquainted with your father for so many years as I have, Marcia. Why should he care for a lot of Italian peasants? There are too many of them in existence already. The food in this world has to be fought for, and those who are beaten deserve to die.’ Marcia’s face turned white as the meaning of a hundred petty incidents flashed through her mind that before had had no significance. She knew now why the people in Rome had stopped talking about the wheat famine when she entered the room. She understood Sybert’s attitude toward her all the year—his quizzical expression once or twice when she spent money over-lavishly. She recalled the newspaper the workman in Rome had thrust in her face—the _Grido del Popolo_—the Cry of the People. She did not have to ask now what it meant. The very beggars in the street had known of her shame, while she alone was ignorant. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she cried.