I, too, had my smile, for I could not help thinking how this biter was being bitten, and how his old friends, the ghosts of the past, were now bearing down upon _him_. We tramped to St. Peters, where squads of tourists seemed to be reading prayers out of red prayer-books and where a learned judge from Seattle, who had lost his pocket-book in a crowd near the statue of St. Peter, was delivering impassioned and highly prejudiced views of church and state to the members of his party. We lunched at Latour's, where a long and limber-looking blond lady, who sat beside a Pomeranian poodle with a napkin tucked under his collar, consumed six cups of coffee and a foot and a half of cigarettes while we were eating. She was one of the most engaging ruins of the feudal world. What a theme for an artist was in the painted face and the sign of the dog! The head waiter told us that she was an American who had been studying art in Italy for years. She ought to be mentioned in the guidebooks, I thought, as we were leaving. We tramped miles to an old barracks of a building called the Cancellaria, which, according to Baedeker, was clothed in “majestic simplicity.” “Baedeker is the Barnum of Europe,” I said, as we went on, “but he is generally more conservative.” We arrived at the Grand Hotel a little before six. I went with Forbes to the Norris's apartments. Gwendolyn opened the door for us and greeted the young man with enthusiasm and led him to the parlor. Betsey was there, and we went at once to our own room. “There's a new count in the game,” she remarked, as soon as we had sat down together--“the Count Raspagnetti, whom we met to-day at Mrs. Dorsey's. He's the grandest thing in Rome--six feet tall, with a monocle and a black beard, and is very good-looking. He's no down-at-the-heel aristocrat, either; has quite a fortune and two palaces in good repair, and has passed the guitar-and-balcony stage. He's about thirty-two, and seems to be very nice and sensible. Mrs. Dorsey calls him the dearest man in the world, and she has invited us to dinner to meet him again. It was a dead set for Gwendolyn, and the child was deeply impressed. It isn't surprising; these Italian men are most fascinating.” “I suppose so,” I said, wearily. “The countless counts of Italy are getting on my nerves. Counts are a kind of bug that gets into the brains of women and feeds there until their heads are as empty as a worm-eaten chestnut.” “Not at all,” said Betsey; “but if she must have a title--” “She mustn't,” I said. “You can't stop her.” “That remains to be seen,” was my answer. “Richard had better get a move on him,” said Betsey. “He can't dally along as you did.” “Let him get his breath--he's only just landed.” According to my custom I dined with Norris in his suite. Forbes went with the ladies to the dining-room. “Aren't you about ready to go back?” I asked, as I thought of Muggs's smile.