For the future, however, he was particularly thoughtful toward his niece to show that he was sorry, and she met his advances more than half-way to show that she had forgiven; and, all in all, they came to a better understanding because of their momentary falling out. Mrs. Copley accounted for Marcia’s apathy (and possibly nearest the truth) on the ground that she had taken a touch of malaria in the old wine-cellar, and she dosed her with quinine until the poor girl’s head rang. It happened therefore that when the evening came to attend a musicale at the Contessa Torrenieri’s villa, Marcia could very gracefully decline. The occasion of the function was the count’s return from the Riviera; and although Marcia had some little curiosity in regard to the count, still it did not mount to such proportions that she was ready to face the rest of the world for its sake. Tivoli and Villa Torrenieri were a long nine miles away, and Villa Vivalanti that evening dined earlier than usual. As Marcia came downstairs in response to Pietro’s summons, she paused a moment on the landing; she had caught the sound of Sybert’s low voice in the salon. She had not seen him since the tempestuous ending of the San Marco festa, and she had not yet determined on just what footing their relations were. She stood hesitating with a very slight quickening of the pulse, and then with a decided thrill of annoyance as an explanation for his unexpected visit presented itself—he had returned from Naples and come out to Villa Vivalanti for the purpose of attending the contessa’s musicale. Marcia went on downstairs more slowly, and entered the salon with a none too cordial air. Sybert’s own greeting was in his usual vein of polite indifference. His manner contained not the slightest suggestion of any misunderstanding in the past. It transpired that he knew nothing of the impending party; he was clothed in an unpretentious dinner-jacket. But he expressed his willingness to attend, in spite of the lack of invitation—it was doubtless waiting for him in Naples, he declared—provided his host would lend him a coat. His host grumblingly assented, and Sybert inquired, with a glance from Mrs. Copley’s velvet and jewels to Marcia’s simple white woollen gown, what time they were planning to start. ‘About eight; it takes almost two hours to get there,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘Marcia is not going,’ she added. ‘Why not, Miss Marcia?’ She looked a trifle self-conscious as she put forth her excuse. ‘I’ve been having a little touch of malaria, and Aunt Katherine thought perhaps the night air——’ ‘I remember, when I was a boy in school, I used frequently to have headaches on Monday mornings,’ said Sybert, with a show of sympathy.