‘No, Gervasio,’ said Sybert, quickly. ‘You’ll never be an Americano. You were born Italiano, and you’ll be Italiano till you die. You should be proud of it—it’s your birthright. We are Americani, and we are going—home. You may come with us and study and learn, but when you get to be a man you must come back to your own country. It will need you—and now run to bed. And you too, Miss Marcia,’ he added. ‘You are tired and there’s nothing to be done. Melville and I will attend to locking up.’ ‘Locking up!’ cried Melville. ‘Good Lord, man, how many locking-ups does this house require?’ He watched them a moment in silence, and then he added bluntly: ‘Oh, see here, what’s the good of secrets between friends? I’ve known it all along.’ He held out a hand to each of them. ‘It’s eminently fitting; my congratulations come from my heart.’ ‘You’re too discerning by far,’ Sybert retorted, his hands fast in his pockets. Marcia, with a laugh and a quick flush, held out both of hers. ‘It’s a secret,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you guessed it, but you must promise on your honour as a gentleman and a diplomat not to tell a single soul!’ ‘I must tell my wife,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s a case of “I told you so,” and she usually comes out ahead in such cases. You can’t ask me to hide what little light I have under a bushel.’ ‘I don’t care so much about Mrs. Melville,’ Marcia gave a reluctant consent. ‘But promise me one thing: that you’ll never, never breathe a word to—I don’t know her name—the Lady who Writes.’ ‘The Lady who Writes? Who on earth is she talking about, Sybert?’ ‘The greatest gossip in Rome,’ appended Marcia. ‘Madame Laventi!’ Melville laughed. ‘You’re too late, Miss Marcia. She knows it already. Madame Laventi does not get her news by word of mouth; the birds carry it to her. Good night,’ he added, and he strolled discreetly into the salon. But his caution was unnecessary; their parting was blatantly innocent. Sybert chose a tall brass candlestick from the row on the mantelpiece and handed it to her with a bow. ‘Thank you,’ said Marcia. She paused on the landing and smiled down. ‘_Buona notte_, Signor Siberti,’ she murmured. He smiled back from the foot of the stairs. ‘_Buona notte_, signorina. Pleasant dreams!’ * * * * * Hearing the sound of voices within, Marcia paused at Mrs. Copley’s door to ask about her uncle. She found the room strewn with the contents of several wardrobes, and her aunt and Granton kneeling each before an open trunk. ‘Good gracious, Aunt Katherine!’ she exclaimed in amazement. ‘What _are_ you doing? It’s one o’clock.’ ‘We are _packing_, my dear.’ Marcia sat down on the bed with a hysterical giggle. ‘Aunt Katherine, if I didn’t know the contrary, I should swear you were born a Copley.’