Marcia was excited. She had not quite recovered her equanimity since the scene with Paul Dessart in the cloisters, and the affair of the dog had upset her afresh. She rattled on now, with a gaiety quite at variance with her usual attitude toward Sybert, of anything and everything that came into her mind—Gerald’s broken tooth, the departure of Marietta, the afternoon at Tre Fontane, and the episode of the dog. Sybert listened politely, but his thoughts were not upon her words. He was too full of what he had left behind in the little café for him to listen patiently to Marcia’s chatter. As he looked at her, flushed and smiling in her dainty clothes, which were faultless with the faultlessness that comes from money, he experienced a feeling almost of anger against her. He longed to face her with a few plain truths. What right had she to all her useless luxuries, when her father was—as the Neapolitan had truly put it—taking his money from the mouths of the poor? It was their work which made it possible for such as she to live—and was she worth it? The world had given her much: she was educated, she was cultured, she had trained tastes and sensibilities, and in return what did she do for the world? She saved a dog. He made a movement of disgust and for a moment he almost obeyed his impulse to throw the dog out. But he brought himself back to reason with a half-laugh. It was not her fault. She knew nothing of her father’s transaction; she knew nothing of Italy’s need. There was no reason why she should not be happy. And, after all, he told himself wearily, it was a relief to meet some one who had no troubles. Marcia suddenly interrupted her own light discourse to look at her watch. ‘Gracious! I haven’t much time. Will you please tell him to hurry a little, Mr. Sybert?’ The driver obeyed by giving his horse a resounding cut with the whip, whereupon Marcia jerked him by the coat-tails and told him that if he whipped his horse again she would not give him any _mancia_. The fellow shrugged his shoulders and they settled down into a walk. ‘Isn’t there any society for the prevention of cruelty to animals?’ she asked. ‘These Italians are hopeless.’ ‘You can scarcely expect them to expend more consideration on animals than they receive themselves,’ Sybert threw off. ‘Oh, dear!’ she complained anew, suddenly becoming aware of their pace; ‘I’m afraid we’ll be late for the train. Don’t you suppose he could hurry just a little without whipping the horse?’ Sybert translated her wishes to the driver again, and they jogged on at a somewhat livelier rate; but by the time they reached the station the train had gone, and there were no Mrs. Copley and Gerald in the waiting-room. Marcia’s face was slightly blank as she realized the situation, and her first involuntary thought was a wish that it had been Paul Dessart instead of Sybert who had come with her. She carried off the matter with a laugh, however, and explained to her companion—