‘Oh, yes, you did!’ said Eleanor. ‘You can’t fib down the past that way. Mamma and I met you in the Luxembourg gardens in broad daylight wearing puffed blue velveteen trousers, with a bottle of wine in one pocket and a loaf of bread in the other.’ ‘Let the dead past bury its dead!’ he pleaded. ‘I go to an English tailor on the Corso now.’ ‘Marcia Copley wrote that she was very much pleased with you, but she didn’t tell us how good-looking you were,’ said Margaret, still frank. Paul reddened a trifle as he repudiated the charge with a laughing gesture. ‘Don’t you think Miss Copley’s nice?’ pursued Margaret. ‘You’d better think so,’ she added, ‘for she’s one of our best friends.’ Paul reddened still more, as he replied indifferently that Miss Copley appeared very nice. He hadn’t seen much of her, of course. ‘I hope,’ said his aunt, ‘that you have been polite.’ ‘My dear aunt,’ he objected patiently, ‘I really don’t go out of my way to be impolite to people,’ and he took the Baedeker from her hand and sat down beside her. ‘What places do you want to see first?’ he inquired. They were soon deep in computations of the galleries, ruins, and churches that should be visited in conjunction, and half an hour later, Paul and Margaret in one carriage, with Mrs. Royston and Eleanor in a second, were trotting toward the Colosseum; while Paul was reflecting that the path of duty need not of necessity be a thorny one. During the next week or so Villa Vivalanti saw little more of Marcia than of her uncle. She spent the greater part of her time in Rome, visiting galleries and churches, with studio teas and other Lenten relaxations to lighten the rigour of sight-seeing. Paul Dessart proved himself an attentive cicerone, and his devotion to duty was not unrewarded; the dim crypts and chapels, the deep-embrasured windows of galleries and palaces afforded many chances for stolen scraps of conversation. And Paul was not one to waste his opportunities. The spring was ideal; Rome was flooded with sunshine and flowers and the Italian joy of being alive. The troubles of Italy’s paupers, which Mr. Copley found so absorbing, received, during these days, little consideration from his niece. Marcia was too busy living her own life to have eyes for any but happy people. She looked at Italy through rose-coloured glasses, and Italy, basking in the spring sunshine, smiled back sympathetically. * * * * *