The next moment she had brought her thoughts back from the distant horizon to the contemplation of homelier matters nearer at hand. Mingled with the early fragrance of roses and dew was the subtly penetrating odour of boiling coffee. Marcia sniffed and considered. Some one was making coffee for the soldiers, who were to be relieved at the ‘Ave Maria.’ She reviewed the possible cooks. Not Granton. The soldiers were Italians, and, for all Granton cared, they could perish from hunger on their way back to Palestrina. Not her aunt. In all probability, she did not know how to make coffee. Not her uncle. He was _hors de concours_ with his wounded arm. The Melvilles! They would not have known where to look for the kitchen. She interrupted her speculations to exchange last night’s evening gown for a fresh blue muslin, and her hasty glance at the mirror as she stole out on tiptoe told her that the slight pallor which comes from three hours’ sleep was not unbecoming. She crept downstairs through the dim hall and paused a second by the open door of the loggia; her eyes involuntarily sought the spot outside the salon window. The rug was back in its place again, and everything was in its usual order. She felt thankful to some one; it was easier so to throw the matter from her mind. She approached the kitchen softly and paused on the threshold with a reconnoitring glance. The big stone-floored room, with its smoky rafters overhead, was dark always, but especially so at the sunrise hour; its deep-embrasured windows looked to the west. In the farthest, darkest corner, before the big, brick-walled stove, some one was standing with his back turned toward her, and her heart quickened its beating perceptibly. She stood very still for several minutes, watching him; she would hypnotise him to turn around; but before she had fairly commenced with the business, he had picked up the poker by the wrong end and dropped it again. The observation which he made in Italian was quite untranslatable. Marcia tittered and he wheeled about. ‘That’s not fair,’ he objected. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything so bad if I had known you were listening.’ ‘Do you know what we do with Gerald when he swears in Italian?’ He shook his head. ‘We wash his mouth with soap.’ ‘I hope it doesn’t happen often,’ he shuddered. ‘He speaks very fluent Italian—nearly as fluent as yours.’ ‘Suppose we change the subject.’ ‘Very well,’ she agreed, advancing to the opposite side of the long central table. ‘What shall we talk about?’ ‘We haven’t said good morning.’ She dropped him a smiling curtsy. ‘Good morning, Mr. Sybert.’ ‘Mr. Sybert! You haven’t changed your mind overnight, have you?’ Her eyes were more reassuring than her speech. ‘N-no.’ ‘No what?’ ‘_Sir!_’ She laughed. He came around to her side of the table, and faced her with his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘You’ve never in your life pronounced my name. I don’t believe you know it!’ She whispered. ‘Say it louder.’