She turned aside into the long salon, and Sybert followed her. If Marcia had been momentarily jostled from her self-possession by his sudden appearance, she had completely regained her poise. She was buoyantly at her ease again. There was a touch of intimacy, almost of coquetry, about her manner as she talked; and yet—Sybert noted the fact with a sub-smile of comprehension—she avoided crossing eyes with him. That moment by the fireside was still too vivid. They returned to the hall, and Marcia stepped to the door leading on to the loggia. The cornice was outlined with tiny coloured lamps, while a man was lighting others by the terrace balustrade. She glanced back at Sybert, who was standing still in the hall. ‘You aren’t going out?’ he asked. ‘Just a moment. I want to see how it looks.’ He looked at her bare shoulders with a slight frown. ‘Bring the signorina a wrap,’ he said to the servant at the door. ‘I don’t need a wrap,’ said Marcia; ‘it’s a warm night.’ Sybert shook his head with an expression that was familiar. ‘Oh, if you wish to say anything, say it!’ she cried. ‘Only please don’t look at me with that smile. It’s the way you looked the first time I saw you—and I don’t like it.’ ‘I have nothing to say. When a young woman threatened with malaria proposes to go out into an Italian night, bare-shouldered, a mere man is left speechless.’ ‘Pride would keep me warm.’ ‘I haven’t a doubt of it; but in case it should for the moment fail——’ He took the long white cloak from the man’s arm and glanced at it with another expression as he placed it on her shoulders. It was composed mostly of chiffon and lace. ‘All is vanity that comes from a Paris shop!’ laughed Marcia. Sybert lit a cigarette and followed her. ‘Well?’ he asked, as they paused by the terrace balustrade. ‘Does it meet with your approval?’ ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she replied as she looked back at the broad, white façade with its gleaming windows. There was no moon, but a clear, star-sprinkled sky. In all the dark landscape the villa alone was a throbbing centre of life and light. Rows of coloured lanterns were beginning to outline the avenue leading to the gate, and in the ilex grove tiny red and blue and white bulbs glowed among the branches like the blossoms of some tropical night-blooming cereus. Servants were hurrying past the windows, musicians were commencing to tune their instruments; everywhere was the excitement of preparation. ‘And this is your birthday,’ he said. ‘I suppose you have received many pretty speeches to-day, Miss Marcia; I hope they may all come true.’ She glanced up in his face, and he looked down with a smile. ‘Twenty-three is a great age!’ A shadow flitted across her face. ‘Isn’t it?’ she sighed. ‘I thought twenty-two was bad enough—but twenty-three! It won’t be many years before I’ll be really getting old.’ Sybert laughed. ‘It’s been a long time since I saw twenty-three—when I first came back to Rome.’ ‘Twelve years,’ said Marcia.