Marcia smiled at the young man and turned away; and as she turned she caught, across an intervening stream of heads, a face, looking in her direction, wearing about the eyes a curiously quizzical expression. It was the face of a middle-aged woman—an interesting face—not exactly beautiful, but sparkling with intelligence. It seemed very familiar to Marcia, and as her eyes lingered on it a moment the quizzical expression gave place to one of amused friendliness. The woman smiled and bowed and passed on. Marcia bowed vaguely, and then it flashed through her mind who it was—the lady who wrote, the ‘greatest gossip in Rome,’ whom she had met at the studio tea so many weeks before. She had forgotten all about her unknown friend of that day, and now she turned quickly to Paul to ask her identity. Paul was engaged in answering some question of his aunt’s, and before she could gain his attention again a hush swept over the great interior and everything else was forgotten in the opening chorus of the ‘Miserere.’ The twilight had deepened, and the great white dome shone dimly far above the blackness of the crowd. The voices of the papal choir swelled louder and louder in the solemn chant, and high and separate and alone rose the clear, flute-like treble of the ‘Pope’s Nightingale.’ And as an undertone, an accompaniment to the music, the shuffle and murmur of thirty thousand listeners rose and fell like the distant beat of surf. The candles on the altar showed dimly above their heads. As the service continued, one by one the lights were extinguished. After half an hour or so, the waiting and intensity grew wearing. The crowd was pressing closer, and Margaret Royston craned her neck, vainly trying to discover how many candles remained. Paul, with ready imagination, was answering his aunt’s questions as to the meaning of the ceremonies. Margaret turned to Marcia. ‘Poke this young priest in front of me,’ she whispered, and ask him in Italian how many candles are left.’ The young priest, overhearing the words, turned around with an amused smile, obligingly stood on his tiptoes to look at the altar, and replied in English that there were three. ‘Thank you,’ said Margaret; ‘I didn’t suppose you could talk English.’ ‘I was born in Troy, New York.’ ‘Really?’ she laughed, and the two fell to comparing the rival merits of the Hudson and the Tiber. He proved most friendly, carefully explaining to the party the significance of the service and the meaning of the different symbols. Mrs. Royston looked reproachfully at her nephew, whose stories, it transpired, did not accord with fact. ‘You really couldn’t expect me to know as much as a professional, Aunt Eleanor,’ he unblushingly expostulated. My explanations were more picturesque than his, at any rate; and if they aren’t true, they ought to be.’