As they crossed the terrace to the little table at the corner of the grove where the afternoon before—it seemed a century—Mrs. Copley and Marcia had taken tea, one of the soldiers came hastily forward. ‘Permit me, signorina,’ he said with a bow, taking the plate from her hands. Marcia relinquished it with a ‘_Grazia tanto_’ and a friendly smile. They were so polite, so good-natured, these Italians! Cups were brought, the table was spread, and Marcia poured the coffee with as much ceremony as if she were presiding at an afternoon reception. The two, at the soldiers’ invitation, stayed and shared the meal with them. Marcia never forgot that sunrise breakfast-party on the terrace—it was Villa Vivalanti’s last social function. She watched Sybert’s intercourse with these men with something like amazement, feeling that she had still to know him, that, his character was in the end the mystery it had seemed. With his hand on their shoulders, he was chatting to the group as if he had known them all his life, cordial, friendly, intimate, with an air of good-comradeship, of perfect comprehension, that she had never seen him employ toward even his staunchest friends of the Embassy. One of the soldiers, noticing the direction of her glance, informed her that the signore had been up all night, alternately talking to them and pacing the walks of the ilex grove, and he added that the signore was a _galantuomo_—a gentleman and a good fellow. ‘What did he talk about?’ she asked. ‘Many, many things,’ said the man. ‘Italia, and the people’s _miseria_, and the priests, and the wine of Sicily, and the King and the Camorra, and (he looked a trifle conscious) our sweethearts. He is not like other _forestieri_, the signore; he understands. He is a good fellow.’ And then the young soldier—he was most confiding—told her about his own sweetheart. Her name was Lucia and she lived in Lucca. She was waiting for him to finish his service, and then they would be married and keep a carved-wood shop in Florence. That was his trade—carving wood to sell to the _forestieri_. It was a beautiful trade; he had learned it in Switzerland, and he had learned it well. The signorina should judge if she ever came to Florence. How much longer did he have to serve? Four months, and then!—He rolled his eyes in the direction where Lucca might be supposed to lie. Marcia smiled sympathetically. Lucia was a beautiful name, she said. Was it not a beautiful name? he returned in an ecstasy. But the signorina should see Lucia herself! Words failed him at this point. ‘Santa Lucia,’ he murmured softly, and he hummed the tune under his breath. Marcia unclasped a chain of gold beads from her neck and slipped it into his hand. ‘When you go back to Lucca give this to Lucia from me—_con amore_.’ ‘Here, here! what is this?’ said Sybert in English, coming up behind. ‘Do I find you giving love-tokens to a strange young man?’