"My boy's to do Cæsar Borgia in the new film. Klawhammer cabled a definite offer the day you left for the country. And of course I insisted on Michelangelo's sailing instantly, though he'd planned to spend the spring in Paris and was rather cross at having to give it up. But as I told him, now is the moment to secure a lovely American bride. We all know what your rich papas-in-law over here always ask: 'What debts? What prospects? What other women?' The woman matter can generally be arranged. The debts _are_, in this case--thanks to your generosity. But the prospects--what were _they_, I ask you? Months of green mould at San Fedele for a fortnight's splash in Rome ... oh, I don't disguise it! And what American bride would accept _that_? The San Fedele pearls, yes--but where is the San Fedele plumbing? But now, my dear, Michelangelo presents himself as an equal ... superior, I might say, if I weren't afraid of being partial. Cæsar Borgia in a Klawhammer film--no one knows how many millions it may mean! And of course Michelangelo is the very type..." "_To do me the favour to transmit to his Eminence_... Yes; this really is a surprise, Amalasuntha." Inwardly Pauline was saying: "After all, why not? If his own mother doesn't mind seeing him all over the place on film posters. And perhaps now he may pay us back--in common decency he'll have to!" She saw no serious reason for displeasure, once she had dropped her carefully cultivated Wyant attitude. "If only it doesn't upset Lita again, and make her restless!" But they really couldn't hope to keep all Lita's friends and relations off the screen. "Arthur was amazed--and awfully pleased, after the first recoil. Dear Arthur, you know, always recoils at first," the Marchesa continued, with her shrewd deprecating smile, which insinuated that Pauline of course wouldn't. (It was odd, Pauline reflected; the Marchesa always looked like a peasant when she was talking business.) "Arthur? You've already written to him about it?" "No, dear. I ran across him yesterday in town. You didn't know Arthur'd come back? I thought he said he'd telephoned to Nona, or somebody. A touch of gout--got fidgety because he couldn't see his doctor. But he looked remarkably well, I thought--so handsome still, in his _élancé_ Wyant way; only a little too flushed, perhaps. Yes ... poor Eleanor... Oh, no; he said Jim was still on the island. Perfectly contented fishing. Jim's the only person I know who's always perfectly contented ... such a lesson..." The Marchesa's sigh seemed to add: "Very restful--but how I should despise him if he were my Michelangelo!"