‘It sounds too familiar,’ she objected, backing against the wall with impudently laughing eyes. ‘You’re so—so sort of old—like Uncle Howard.’ ‘Oh, I know you’re young, but you needn’t put on such airs about it. You don’t own all the youth in the world.’ ‘Thirty-five!’ she murmured, with a wondering shake of her head. ‘Ah—thirty-five. A very nice age. Just the right age, in fact, to make you mind me. Oh, you needn’t laugh; I’m going to do it fast enough. And right here we’ll begin.’ He folded his arms with a very fierce frown, but with a smile on his lips, quizzical, humorous, comprehending, kindly—the finished result of so many smiles that had gone before. ‘The business in hand, my dear young woman, is to find out whether or not you happen to know the name of the man you’ve promised to marry. Come, let me hear it; say it out loud.’ Marcia looked back tantalizingly a moment, and then, after an inquiring glance about the room as if she were searching to recall it, she dropped her lids and pronounced it with her eyes on the floor. ‘Laurence.’ He unfolded his arms. ‘The coffee’s boiling over!’ Marcia exclaimed. ‘Kiss me good morning.’ ‘The coffee’s boiling over.’ ‘I don’t care if it is.’ The coffee boiled over with an angry spurt that deluged the stove with hissing steam. Marcia was patently too anxious for its safety to give her attention to anything else. Sybert stalked over and viciously jerked it back, and she picked up the plate of rolls and ran for the door. He caught up with her in the hall. ‘I know why you discharged Marietta,’ he threw out. ‘Why?’ ‘If I were a French cook with a moustache and a goatee and a fetching white cap, and you were a black-eyed little Italian nursemaid with gold ear-rings in your ears, I should very frequently let things burn.’ ‘Oh,’ Marcia laughed. ‘And I should probably let the little boy I ought to be looking after fall over the balustrade and break his front tooth while I was sitting on the door-step smiling at you.’ ‘And so we should be torn apart—_there_ was a tragedy!’ he mused compassionately. ‘I hadn’t realized it before. It proves that you must suffer yourself before you can appreciate the sufferings of others.’ ‘French cooks with fetching caps have elastic hearts.’ ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘and so have black-eyed little Italian nursemaids—I’m glad you’re not an Italian nursemaid, Marcia.’ ‘I’m glad you’re not a French cook—Laurence.’ And then she laughed. ‘Will you tell me something?’ ‘Anything you wish.’ ‘Were you ever in love with the Contessa Torrenieri?’ ‘I used to fancy I was something of the sort nine or ten years ago. But, thank heaven, she was looking for a count.’ ‘I’m glad she found him!’ Marcia breathed.