‘When Frenchmen _are_ nice they are very nice,’ said Mrs. Copley; ‘but when they are not——’ Words failed her, and she picked up her embroidery again. At the mid-day breakfast Marcia announced rather hopefully that she did not think the Roystons would come. ‘Why not?’ her aunt inquired. ‘They’ve lost their maid, and there won’t be anybody to help them pack. If they come out to the villa to-night they won’t be ready to start for Perugia on Wednesday. Besides, Mrs. Royston never likes to do anything on the spur of the moment. She likes to plan her programme a week ahead and stick to it. Oh, I know they won’t come,’ she added with a laugh. ‘M. Benoit will be the only guest, after all.’ ‘And I’ve ordered dinner for eight!’ said Mrs. Copley, pathetically. ‘I am thinking of driving over to the contessa’s this afternoon—I might invite her to join us.’ ‘Oh, no, Aunt Katherine! Please, not to-day. If the Roystons should come, there’ll be a big enough party without her; and, anyway, she wouldn’t be particularly interested—Mr. Sybert isn’t here.’ ‘The contessa comes to see us, not Mr. Sybert,’ Mrs. Copley returned, with a touch of asperity. Marcia smiled into her cup of chocolate and said nothing. * * * * * While the sun was sunk in its noonday torpor, she stood by her window, gazing absently off toward the old monastery, engaged in a last valiant struggle to make up her mind. She finally turned away with an impatient shrug which banished Paul Dessart and his importunities to the bottom of the Dead Sea. There was no use in bothering any more about it now; Mrs. Royston’s mind at least was no weathercock. Marcia clung tenaciously to the hope that they would not come. It was a beautiful afternoon, fresh and sparkling from the week of rain, and she suddenly decided upon a horseback ride to brush from her mind all bothersome questions. She got out her riding-habit and jerked the bell-rope with a force which set bells jangling wildly through the house, and brought Granton as nearly on a run as was consonant with her dignity and years. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ Marcia laughed in response to the maid’s anxious face; ‘I just made up my mind to go for a ride, and in the first flush of energy I rang louder than I meant. It’s a great thing, Granton, to get your mind made up about even so unimportant a matter as a horseback ride.’ ‘Yes, miss,’ Granton agreed somewhat vaguely as she knelt down to help with a boot. ‘How in the world do those soldiers in the King’s guard ever get their boots on?’ Marcia asked. ‘I don’t know, miss,’ said Granton, patiently. Marcia laughed. ‘Send word to the stables for Angelo to bring the horses in fifteen minutes. I’m going to take a long ride, and I must start immediately.’ ‘Very well, miss.’ ‘_Immediately_,’ Marcia called after her. In dealing with Angelo reiteration was necessary. He was an Italian, and he had still to learn the value of time.