Marcia murmured some polite phrases while she tried to catch the gist of the conversation on the other side. It was not of Paul Dessart, she reassured herself. The woman who wrote was narrating an adventure with some ‘bread-tickets’ of the anti-begging society, and the two men—Melville and Sybert—were chaffing her uncle. The point of the story appeared to be against him. He finally broke away, and with a glance at his watch turned back to his niece. ‘Well, Marcia, if we are to catch that six-o’clock train, I think it is time that we were off.’ Sybert accompanied them to the door, talking riots to her uncle, while she went on ahead, feeling forgotten and overlooked. Melville joined them again in the vestibule, and the three fell to discussing barricades and soldiers until Copley, with another look at his watch, laughingly declared that they must run. Sybert for the first time, Marcia thought, gave any sign of being aware of her presence. ‘Well, Miss Marcia,’ he said, turning toward her with a friendly smile. ‘Your uncle says that you are talking of going back to America next winter. That is too bad, but we shall hope to see a little of you in the autumn before you leave. You are going to the Tyrol for the summer, I hear. That will be pleasant, at least.’ ‘You talk as if America were a terrible hardship,’ said Marcia, taking her tone from him. Sybert laughed, with his old shrug. ‘Ah, well, it depends on where one’s interests are, I suppose.’ She suddenly flushed again, with the thought that he was referring to Paul Dessart, and she plunged blindly into another subject to cover her confusion. ‘Did Uncle Howard tell you that we have decided to take Gervasio with us for the summer? He wanted to find a home for him in Rome; I wanted to take him with us; Aunt Katherine hadn’t made up her mind until Gerald cried at the thought of parting with him, and, as usual, Gerald’s tears decided the matter.’ ‘It was a most fortunate whipping for Gervasio the night that we drove by,’ he returned as he held out his hand. ‘Well, Miss Marcia, as you break up next week, I shall probably not see you again. I hope that you will have a delightful summer.’ Marcia shook hands smilingly, with her heart sunk fathoms deep. He followed them to the carriage for a last word with her uncle. ‘You’d better change your mind, Sybert, and come out to the villa Saturday night with the Melvilles,’ Copley called as the carriage started. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s too much excitement elsewhere for me to afford a vacation just now,’ and he bowed a smiling good-bye to Marcia. CHAPTER XXII