‘Ah!’ breathed Marcia. She was beginning to have an inkling. Had he been added to the collection? It was too bad of Eleanor! ‘Miss Royston is charming, like all Americans,’ reiterated the lady. ‘But, I fear, a little cruel. _Mais n’importe._ He is young, and when one is young one’s heart is made of india-rubber, is it not so?’ Her eyes rested on Marcia for a moment. Marcia’s glance had wandered toward the door. Laurence Sybert had just come in and joined the group about her uncle, and she noted the fact with a quick thrill of excitement. Would he come and speak to her? What would he say? How would he act? She felt a strong desire to study his face, but she was aware that the eyes of ‘the greatest gossip in Rome’ were upon her, and she rallied herself to answer. Monsieur Benoit was commiserated for the third time. ‘Ah, well,’ finished the lady, philosophically, ‘perhaps it is for the best. A young man _avec le cœur brisé_ is far more interesting than one who is heart-whole. There is that Laurence Sybert over there.’ She nodded toward the group on the other side of the room. ‘For the last ten years, when the _forestieri_ in Rome haven’t had anything else to talk about, they’ve talked about him. And all because they think that under that manner of his he’s carrying around a broken heart for the pretty little Contessa Torrenieri.’ Marcia laughed lightly. ‘Mr. Sybert at least carries his broken heart easily. One would never suspect its presence.’ The lady’s eyes rested upon her an appreciable instant before she answered: ‘_Che vuole?_ People must have something to talk about, and a good many girls—yes, and with _dots_—have sighed in vain for a smile from his dark eyes. Between you and me, I don’t believe the man’s got any heart—either broken or whole. But I mustn’t be slandering him,’ she laughed. ‘I remember he’s a friend at Casa Copley.’ ‘Mr. Sybert is my uncle’s friend; the rest of us see very little of him,’ Marcia returned as she endeavoured to think of a new theme. Her companion, however, saved her the trouble. ‘And were you not surprised at Mr. Dessart’s desertion?’ ‘Mr. Dessart’s desertion?’ Marcia repeated the question with a slight quiver of the eyelids. ‘Exchanging Rome for Pittsburg. You Americans do things so suddenly! One loses one’s breath.’ ‘But his father was ill and they sent for him.’ ‘Yes; but the surprising part is that he goes for good. The pictures and carvings and curios are packed; there is a card in the window saying the studio is for rent—he is giving up art to mine coal instead.’ Marcia laughed. ‘It is a seven-league step from art to coal,’ she acknowledged. ‘I had thought myself that he was an artist to the end.’