She tied her stock before the glass in a very mannish fashion, adjusted her hat—with the least perceptible tilt—and catching up her whip and gloves, started out gaily, humming a snatch of a very much reiterated Neapolitan street song. ‘“Jammo ‘ncoppa, jammo jà . . . Funiculì—funiculà.”’ It ended in a series of trills; she did not know the words. At the head of the stairs she met Granton returning. Granton stood primly expressionless, waiting patiently for her to have done before venturing to speak. Marcia completed her measure and broke off with a laugh. ‘Well, Granton, what’s the matter?’ ‘Angelo has taken Master Gerald’s pony to Palestrina to be shod and both of the carriages are to be used, so the other men will be needed for them, and there isn’t any one left to ride with you.’ Marcia’s smile changed to a frown. ‘How stupid! Angelo has no business to go off without saying anything.’ ‘Mr. Copley left orders for him to have the pony shod.’ ‘He’s not Mr. Copley’s groom; he’s mine.’ ‘Yes, miss,’ said Granton. Marcia went on slowly downstairs, her frown gathering volume as she proceeded. She wished to take a horseback ride, and she wished nothing else for the moment. She foresaw that her aunt would propose that she ride into Tivoli and take tea with the contessa. If there was one thing she hated, it was to ride at a steady jog-trot beside the carriage; and if there was a second thing, it was to take tea with the contessa. She heard Mrs. Copley’s and Gerald’s voices in the salon and she advanced to the doorway. ‘Aunt Katherine! I’m furious! This is the first time in four days that it has stopped raining long enough for me to go out, and I’m _dying_ to take a gallop in the country. That miserable Angelo has gone off with Gerald’s pony, and there isn’t another man on the place that can go with me. You needn’t propose my riding into Tivoli to take tea with the contessa, for I won’t do it.’ She delivered this outburst from the threshold, and as she advanced into the room she was slightly disconcerted to see Laurence Sybert lazily pulling himself from a chair to greet her—if she ever showed in a particularly bad light, Sybert was sure to be at hand. He bowed, his face politely grave, but there was the provoking suggestion of a smile not far below the surface; and as she looked at him Marcia had the uncomfortable feeling that her own face was growing red. ‘I’m sorry about Angelo, my dear,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘I didn’t know that you wanted to ride this afternoon. But here is Mr. Sybert who has come out to see your uncle, and your uncle won’t be back till evening. I’m sure he will be glad to go with you.’ Marcia glanced back at her aunt with an expression which said, ‘Oh, Aunt Katherine, wait till I get you alone!’ ‘Certainly, Miss Marcia, I should be delighted to fill the recreant Angelo’s place,’ he affirmed, but in a tone which to her ear did not express any undue eagerness.