HIS OWN PEOPLE

by Booth Tarkington

I. A Change of Lodging

The glass-domed "palm-room" of the Grand Continental Hotel Magnifique inRome is of vasty heights and distances, filled with a mellow green lightwhich filters down languidly through the upper foliage of tall palms, so that the two hundred people who may be refreshing or displayingthemselves there at the tea-hour have something the look of under-watercreatures playing upon the sea-bed. They appear, however, to be unawareof their condition; even the ladies, most like anemones of thatgay assembly, do not seem to know it; and when the Hungarian band(crustacean-like in costume, and therefore well within the picture)has sheathed its flying tentacles and withdrawn by dim processes, thetea-drinkers all float out through the doors, instead of bubbling upand away through the filmy roof. In truth, some such exit as that wasimagined for them by a young man who remained in the aquarium after theyhad all gone, late one afternoon of last winter. They had been marvelousenough, and to him could have seemed little more so had they made such adeparture. He could almost have gone that way himself, so charged washe with the uplift of his belief that, in spite of the brilliantstrangeness of the hour just past, he had been no fish out of water. 

While the waiters were clearing the little tables, he leaned back in hischair in a content so rich it was nearer ecstasy. He could not bear todisturb the possession joy had taken of him, and, like a half-awake boyclinging to a dream that his hitherto unkind sweetheart has kissed him, lingered on in the enchanted atmosphere, his eyes still full of all theyhad beheld with such delight, detaining and smiling upon each revelationof this fresh memory--the flashingly lovely faces, the dreamily lovelyfaces, the pearls and laces of the anemone ladies, the color andromantic fashion of the uniforms, and the old princes who had beenpointed out to him: splendid old men wearing white mustaches and singleeye-glasses, as he had so long hoped and dreamed they did. 

"Mine own people!" he whispered. "I have come unto mine own at last. Mine own people!" After long waiting (he told himself), he had seenthem--the people he had wanted to see, wanted to know, wanted tobe _of!_ Ever since he had begun to read of the "beau monde" in hisschooldays, he had yearned to know some such sumptuous reality as thatwhich had come true to-day, when, at last, in Rome he had seen--as hewrote home that night--"the finest essence of Old-World society minglingin Cosmopolis. "

Artificial odors (too heavy to keep up with the crowd that hadworn them) still hung about him; he breathed them deeply, his eyeshalf-closed and his lips noiselessly formed themselves to a quotationfrom one of his own poems:

 While trails of scent, like cobweb's films Slender and faint and rare, Of roses, and rich, fair fabrics, Cling on the stirless air, The sibilance of voices, At a wave of Milady's glove, Is stilled--

He stopped short, interrupting himself with a half-cough of laughter ashe remembered the inspiration of these verses. He had written them threemonths ago, at home in Cranston, Ohio, the evening after Anna McCord's"coming-out tea. " "Milady" meant Mrs. McCord; she had "stilled" theconversation of her guests when Mary Kramer (whom the poem called a"sweet, pale singer") rose to sing Mavourneen; and the stanza closedwith the right word to rhyme with "glove. " He felt a contemptuous pityfor his little, untraveled, provincial self of three months ago, if, indeed, it could have been himself who wrote verses about Anna McCord's"coming-out tea" and referred to poor, good old Mrs. McCord as "Milady"!

The second stanza had intimated a conviction of a kind which only poetsmay reveal:

 She sang to that great assembly, They thought, as they praised her tone; But she and my heart knew better: Her song was for me alone. 

He had told the truth when he wrote of Mary Kramer as pale and sweet, and she was paler, but no less sweet, when he came to say good-by toher before he sailed. Her face, as it was at the final moment of theprotracted farewell, shone before him very clearly now for a moment:young, plaintive, white, too lamentably honest to conceal how much her"God-speed" to him cost her. He came very near telling her how fond ofher he had always been; came near giving up his great trip to remainwith her always. 

"Ah!" He shivered as one shivers at the thought of disaster narrowlyaverted. "The fates were good that I only came near it!"

He took from his breast-pocket an engraved card, without having tosearch for it, because during the few days the card had been in hispossession the action had become a habit. 

"Comtesse de Vaurigard, " was the name engraved, and below was written inpencil: "To remember Monsieur Robert Russ Mellin he promise to come totea Hotel Magnifique, Roma, at five o'clock Thursday. "

There had been disappointment in the first stages of his journey, andthat had gone hard with Mellin. Europe had been his goal so long, andhis hopes of pleasure grew so high when (after his years of saving andputting by, bit by bit, out of his salary in a real-estate office)he drew actually near the shining horizon. But London, his firststopping-place, had given him some dreadful days. He knew nobody, andhad not understood how heavily sheer loneliness--which was something hehad never felt until then--would weigh upon his spirits. In Cranston, where the young people "grew up together, " and where he met a dozenfriends on the street in a half-hour's walk, he often said that he"liked to be alone with himself. " London, after his first excitement inmerely being there, taught him his mistake, chilled him with weeks offorbidding weather, puzzled and troubled him. 

He was on his way to Paris when (as he recorded in his journal) a lightcame into his life. This illumination first shone for him by means ofone Cooley, son and inheritor of all that had belonged to the late greatCooley, of Cooley Mills, Connecticut. Young Cooley, a person ofcheery manners and bright waistcoats, was one of Mellin's fewsea-acquaintances; they had played shuffleboard together on the steamerduring odd half-hours when Mr. Cooley found it possible to absenthimself from poker in the smoking-room; and they encountered each otheragain on the channel boat crossing to Calais. 

_"Hey!"_ was Mr. Cooley's lively greeting. "I'm meetin' lots of peopleI know to-day. You runnin' over to Paris, too? Come up to the boat-deckand meet the Countess de Vaurigard. "

"Who?" said Mellin, red with pleasure, yet fearing that he did not heararight. 

"The Countess de Vaurigard. Queen! met her in London. Sneyd introducedme to her. You remember Sneyd on the steamer? Baldish Englishman--rednose--doesn't talk much--younger brother of Lord Rugden, so he says. Played poker some. Well, _yes!_"

"I saw him. I didn't meet him. "

"You didn't miss a whole lot. Fact is, before we landed I almost had himsized up for queer, but when he introduced me to the Countess I saw mymistake. He must be the real thing. _She_ certainly is! You come alongup and see. "

So Mellin followed, to make his bow before a thin, dark, charminglypretty young woman, who smiled up at him from her deck-chair throughan enhancing mystery of veils; and presently he found himself sittingbeside her. He could not help trembling slightly at first, but he wouldhave giving a great deal if, by some miraculous vision, Mary Kramer andother friends of his in Cranston could have seen him engaged in what hethought of as "conversational badinage" with the Comtesse de Vaurigard. 

Both the lady and her name thrilled him. He thought he remembered thelatter in Froissart: it conjured up "baronial halls" and "donjon keeps, "rang resonantly in his mind like "Let the portcullis fall!" At home hehad been wont to speak of the "oldest families in Cranston, " complainingof the invasions of "new people" into the social territory of theMcCords and Mellins and Kramers--a pleasant conception which thepresence of a De Vaurigard revealed to him as a petty and shamefulfiction; and yet his humility, like his little fit of trembling, wasof short duration, for gay geniality of Madame de Vaurigard put himamazingly at ease. 

At Calais young Cooley (with a matter-of-course air, and not seeming tofeel the need of asking permission) accompanied her to a compartment, and Mellin walked with them to the steps of the coach, where he paused, murmuring some words of farewell. 

Madame de Vaurigard turned to him with a prettily assumed dismay. 

"What! You stay at Calais?" she cried, pausing with one foot on the stepto ascend. "Oh! I am sorry for you. Calais is ter-rible!"

"No. I am going on to Paris. "

"So? You have frien's in another coach which you wish to be wiz?"

"No, no, indeed, " he stammered hastily. 

"Well, my frien', " she laughed gayly, "w'y don' you come wiz us?"

Blushing, he followed Cooley into the coach, to spend five happy hours, utterly oblivious of the bright French landscape whirling by outside thewindow. 

There ensued a month of conscientious sightseeing in Paris, and thatunfriendly city afforded him only one glimpse of the Countess. Shewhizzed by him in a big touring-car one afternoon as he stood on an"isle of safety" at the foot of the Champs Elysees. Cooley was drivingthe car. The raffish, elderly Englishman (whose name, Mellin knew, was Sneyd) sat with him, and beside Madame de Vaurigard in the tonneaulolled a gross-looking man--unmistakably an American--with a jovial, red, smooth-shaven face and several chins. Brief as the glimpse was, Mellin had time to receive a distinctly disagreeable impression of thisperson, and to wonder how Heaven could vouchsafe the society of Madamede Vaurigard to so coarse a creature. 

All the party were dressed as for the road, gray with dust, and to allappearances in a merry mood. Mellin's heart gave a leap when he saw thatthe Countess recognized him. Her eyes, shining under a white veil, methis for just the instant before she was quite by, and when the machinehad passed a little handkerchief waved for a moment from the side of thetonneau where she sat. 

With that he drew the full breath of Romance. 

He had always liked to believe that _"grandes dames"_ leaned back inthe luxurious upholstery of their victorias, landaulettes, daumonts orautomobiles with an air of inexpressible though languid hauteur. TheNewport letter in the Cranston Telegraph often referred to it. Butthe gayety of that greeting from the Countess' little handkerchiefwas infinitely refreshing, and Mellin decided that animation was morebecoming than hauteur--even to a _"grande dame. "_

That night he wrote (almost without effort) the verses published in theCranston Telegraph two weeks later. They began:

 _Marquise, ma belle_, with your kerchief of lace Awave from your flying car, And your slender hand--

The hand to which he referred was the same which had arrested hisgondola and his heart simultaneously, five days ago, in Venice. He wason his way to the station when Madame de Vaurigard's gondola shot outinto the Grand Canal from a narrow channel, and at her signal both boatspaused. 

"Ah! but you fly away!" she cried, lifting her eyebrows mournfully, as she saw the steamer-trunk in his gondola. "You are goin' return toAmerica?"

"No. I'm just leaving for Rome. "

"Well, in three day' _I_ am goin' to Rome!" She clapped her handslightly and laughed. "You know this is three time' we meet jus' bychance, though that second time it was so quick--_pff_! like that--wedidn't talk much togezzer! Monsieur Mellin, " she laughed again, "I thinkwe mus' be frien's. Three time'--an' we are both goin' to Rome! MonsieurMellin, you believe in _Fate_?"

With a beating heart he did. 

Thence came the invitation to meet her at the Magnifique for tea, andthe card she scribbled for him with a silver pencil. She gave it withthe prettiest gesture, leaning from her gondola to his as they parted. She turned again, as the water between them widened, and with her "_Aurevoir_" offered him a faintly wistful smile to remember. 

All the way to Rome the noises of the train beat out the measure of hisParisian verses:

 _Marquise, ma belle_, with your kerchief of lace Awave from your flying car--

He came out of his reverie with a start. A dozen men and women, dressedfor dinner, with a gold-fish officer or two among them, swam leisurelythrough the aquarium on their way to the hotel restaurant. They were thesame kind of people who had sat at the little tables for tea--people ofthe great world, thought Mellin: no vulgar tourists or "trippers" amongthem; and he shuddered at the remembrance of his pension (whither it wastime to return) and its conscientious students of Baedeker, its dingyhalls and permanent smell of cold food. Suddenly a high resolve lit hisface: he got his coat and hat from the brass-and-blue custodian in thelobby, and without hesitation entered the "bureau. "

"I 'm not quite satisfied where I am staying--where I'm stopping, thatis, " he said to the clerk. "I think I'll take a room here. "

"Very well, sir. Where shall I send for your luggage?"

"I shall bring it myself, " replied Mellin coldly, "in my cab. "

He did not think it necessary to reveal the fact that he was staying atone of the cheaper pensions; and it may be mentioned that this reticence(as well as the somewhat chilling, yet careless, manner of a gentlemanof the "great world" which he assumed when he returned with his trunkand bag) very substantially increased the rate put upon the room heselected at the Magnifique. However, it was with great satisfactionthat he found himself installed in the hotel, and he was too recklesslyexhilarated, by doing what he called the "right thing, " to waste anytime wondering what the "right thing" would do to the diminishing pad ofexpress checks he carried in the inside pocket of his waistcoat. 

"Better live a fortnight like a gentleman, " he said, as he tossed hisshoes into a buhl cabinet, "than vegetate like a tourist for a year. "

He had made his entrance into the "great world" and he meant to hold hisplace in it as one "to the manor born. " Its people should not findhim lacking: he would wear their manner and speak their language--nogaucherie should betray him, no homely phrase escape his lips. 

This was the chance he had always hoped for, and when he fell asleepin his gorgeous, canopied bed, his soul was uplifted with happyexpectations. 

II. Music on the Pincio

The following afternoon found him still in that enviable condition ashe stood listening to the music on the Pincian Hill. He had it of rumorthat the Fashion of Rome usually took a turn there before it went totea, and he had it from the lady herself that Madame de Vaurigard wouldbe there. Presently she came, reclining in a victoria, the harness ofher horses flashing with gold in the sunshine. She wore a long erminestole; her hat was ermine; she carried a muff of the same fur, andMellin thought it a perfect finish to the picture that a dark gentlemanof an appearance most distinguished should be sitting beside her. AnItalian noble, surely!

He saw the American at once, nodded to him and waved her hand. Thevictoria went on a little way beyond the turn of the drive, drew out ofthe line of carriages, and stopped. 

"Ah, Monsieur Mellin, " she cried, as he came up, "I am glad! I was sofoolish yesterday I didn' give you the address of my little apartmentan' I forgot to ask you what is your hotel. I tol' you I would come herefor my drive, but still I might have lost you for ever. See what manypeople! It is jus' that Fate again. "

She laughed, and looked to the Italian for sympathy in her kindlymerriment. He smiled cordially upon her, then lifted his hat and smiledas cordially upon Mellin. 

"I am so happy to fin' myself in Rome that I forget"--Madame deVaurigard went on--"_ever'sing!_ But now I mus' make sure not to loseyou. What is your hotel?"

"Oh, the Magnifique, " Mellin answered carelessly. "I suppose everybodythat one knows stops there. One does stop there, when one is in Rome, doesn't one?"

"Everybody go' there for tea, and to eat, sometime, but to _stay_--ah, that is for the American!" she laughed. "That is for you who are all soabomin-_ab_-ly rich!" She smiled to the Italian again, and both of themsmiled beamingly on Mellin. 

"But that isn't always our fault, is it?" said Mellin easily. 

"Aha! You mean you are of the new generation, of the yo'ng American' whocome over an' try to spen' these immense fortune'--those _'pile'_--yourfather or your gran-father make! I know quite well. Ah?"

"Well, " he hesitated, smiling. "I suppose it does look a little by wayof being like that. "

"Wicked fellow!" She leaned forward and tapped his shoulder chidinglywith two fingers. "I know what you wish the mos' in the worl'--youwish to get into mischief. That is it! No, sir, I will jus' take you inhan'!"

"When will you take me?" he asked boldly. 

At this, the pleasant murmur of laughter--half actual and halfsuggested--with which she underlined the conversation, became loud andclear, as she allowed her vivacious glance to strike straight into hisupturned eyes, and answered:

"As long as a little turn roun' the hill, _now_. Cavaliere Corni--"

To Mellin's surprise and delight the Italian immediately descended fromthe victoria without the slightest appearance of irritation; onthe contrary, he was urbane to a fine degree, and, upon Madame deVaurigard's formally introducing him to Mellin, saluted the latter withgrave politeness, expressing in good English a hope that they might meetoften. When the American was installed at the Countess' side she spoketo the driver in Italian, and they began to move slowly along the ilexavenue, the coachman reining his horses to a walk. 

"You speak Italian?" she inquired. 

"Oh, not a great deal more than a smattering, " he replied airily--atruthful answer, inasmuch as a vocabulary consisting simply of _"quantycosty"_ and _"troppo"_ cannot be seriously considered much more than asmattering. Fortunately she made no test of his linguistic attainment, but returned to her former subject. 

"Ah, yes, all the worl' to-day know' the new class of American, " shesaid--"_your_ class. Many year' ago we have another class which Europedidn' like. That was when the American was ter-ri-ble! He was the--whatis that you call?--oh, yes; he 'make himself, ' you say: that is it. Myfrien', he was abominable! He brag'; he talk' through the nose; yes, and he was niggardly, rich as he was! But you, you yo'ng men of the newgeneration, you are gentlemen of the idleness; you are aristocrats, withpolish an' with culture. An' yet you throw your money away--yes, youthrow it to poor Europe as if to a beggar!"

"No, no, " he protested with an indulgent laugh which confessed that thetruth was really "Yes, yes. "

"Your smile betray' you!" she cried triumphantly. "More than jus' bein'guilty of that fault, I am goin' to tell you of others. You are not theole-time--what is it you say?--Ah, yes, the 'goody-goody. ' I haveheard my great American frien', Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, call it theSonday-school. Is it not? Yes, you are not the Sonday-school yo'ng men, you an' your class!"

"No, " he said, bestowing a long glance upon a stout nurse whowas sitting on a bench near the drive and attending to twins in aperambulator. "No, we're not exactly dissenting parsons. "

"Ah, no!" She shook her head at him prettily. "You are wicked! You areup into all the mischief! Have I not hear what wild sums you risk atyour game, that poker? You are famous for it. "

"Oh, we play, " he admitted with a reckless laugh, "and I suppose we doplay rather high. "

"High!" she echoed. "_Souzands!_ But that is not all. Ha, ha, ha, naughty one! Have I not observe' you lookin' at these pretty creature', the little contadina-girl, an' the poor ladies who have hire' theircarriages for two lire to drive up and down the Pincio in their bes'dress an' be admire' by the yo'ng American while the music play'? Whichone I wonder, is it on whose wrist you would mos' like to fasten abracelet of diamon's? Wicked, I have watch' you look at them--"

"No, no, " he interrupted earnestly. "I have not once looked away fromyou, I _could n't_. " Their eyes met, but instantly hers were lowered;the bright smile with which she had been rallying him faded and therewas a pause during which he felt that she had become very grave. Whenshe spoke, it was with a little quaver, and the controlled pathos ofher voice was so intense that it evoked a sympathetic catch in his ownthroat. 

"But, my frien', if it should be that I cannot wish you to look so atme, or to speak so to me?"

"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, almost incoherently. "I didn't meanto hurt your feelings. I wouldn't do anything you'd think ungentlemanlyfor the world!"

Her eyes lifted again to his with what he had no difficulty inrecognizing as a look of perfect trust; but, behind that, he perceived adarkling sadness. 

"I know it is true, " she murmured--"I know. But you see there are time'when a woman has sorrow--sorrow of one kind--when she mus' be sure thatthere is only--only rispec' in the hearts of her frien's. "

With that, the intended revelation was complete, and the young manunderstood, as clearly as if she had told him in so many words, that shewas not a widow and that her husband was the cause of her sorrow. Hisquickened instinct marvelously divined (or else it was conveyed to himby some intangible method of hers) that the Count de Vaurigard was avery bad case, but that she would not divorce him. 

"I know, " he answered, profoundly touched. "I understand. "

In silent gratitude she laid her hand for a second upon his sleeve. Thenher face brightened, and she said gayly:

"But we shall not talk of _me!_ Let us see how we can keep you out ofmischief at leas' for a little while. I know very well what you will doto-night: you will go to Salone Margherita an' sit in a box like all thewicked Americans--"

"No, indeed, I shall not!"

"Ah, yes, you will!" she laughed. "But until dinner let me keep you fromwickedness. Come to tea jus' wiz me, not at the hotel, but at the littleapartment I have taken, where it is quiet. The music is finish', an' allthose pretty girl' are goin' away, you see. I am not selfish if I takeyou from the Pincio now. You will come?"

III. Glamour

It was some fair dream that would be gone too soon, he told himself, asthey drove rapidly through the twilight streets, down from the Pincioand up the long slope of the Quirinal. They came to a stop in the graycourtyard of a palazzo, and ascended in a sleepy elevator to the fifthfloor. Emerging, they encountered a tall man who was turning awayfrom the Countess' door, which he had just closed. The landing was notlighted, and for a moment he failed to see the American following Madamede Vaurigard. 

"Eow, it's you, is it, " he said informally. "Waitin' a devil of a longtime for you. I've gawt a message for you. _He's_ comin'. He writes thatCooley--"

_"Attention!"_ she interrupted under her breath, and, stepping forwardquickly, touched the bell. "I have brought a frien' of our dear, drollCooley with me to tea. Monsieur Mellin, you mus' make acquaintance withMonsieur Sneyd. He is English, but we shall forgive him because he is asuch ole frien' of mine. "

"Ah, yes, " said Mellin. "Remember seeing you on the boat, running acrossthe pond. "

"Yes, ev coss, " responded Mr. Sneyd cordially. "I wawsn't so fawchnitas to meet you, but dyuh eold Cooley's talked ev you often. Heop I sh'llsee maw of you hyuh. "

A very trim, very intelligent-looking maid opened the door, and thetwo men followed Madame de Vaurigard into a square hall, hung withtapestries and lit by two candles of a Brobdingnagian species Mellin hadheretofore seen only in cathedrals. Here Mr. Sneyd paused. 

"I weon't be bawthring you, " he said. "Just a wad with you, Cantess, andI'm off. "

The intelligent-looking maid drew back some heavy curtains leading to asalon beyond the hall, and her mistress smiled brightly at Mellin. 

"I shall keep him to jus' his one word, " she said, as the young manpassed between the curtains. 

It was a nobly proportioned room that he entered, so large that, inspite of the amount of old furniture it contained, the first impressionit gave was one of spaciousness. Panels of carved and blackened woodlined the walls higher than his head; above them, Spanish leathergleamed here and there with flickerings of red and gilt, reflectingdimly a small but brisk wood fire which crackled in a carved stonefireplace. His feet slipped on the floor of polished tiles and wanderedfrom silky rugs to lose themselves in great black bear skins as inunmown sward. He went from the portrait of a "cinquecento" cardinal toa splendid tryptich set over a Gothic chest, from a cabinet shelteringa collection of old glass to an Annunciation by an unknown Primitive. He told himself that this was a "room in a book, " and became dreamilyassured that he was a man in a book. Finally he stumbled upon somethingalmost grotesquely out of place: a large, new, perfectly-appointedcard-table with a sliding top, a smooth, thick, green cover and patentcompartments. 

He halted before this incongruity, regarding it with astonishment. Then a light laugh rippled behind him, and he turned to find Madame deVaurigard seated in a big red Venetian chair by the fire. 

She wore a black lace dress, almost severe in fashion, which gracefullyemphasized her slenderness; and she sat with her knees crossed, thefirelight twinkling on the beads of her slipper, on her silken instep, and flashing again from the rings upon the slender fingers she hadclasped about her knee. 

She had lit a thin, long Russian cigarette. 

"You see?" she laughed. "I mus' keep up with the time. I mus' dosomesing to hold my frien's about me. Even the ladies like to playnow--that breedge w'ich is so tiresome--they play, play, play! Andyou--you Americans, you refuse to endure us if we do not let you play. So for my frien's when they come to my house--if they wish it, thereis that foolish little table. I fear"--she concluded with a bewitchingaffectation of sadness--"they prefer that to talkin' wiz me. "

"You know that couldn't be so, _Comtesse_, " he said. "I would rathertalk to you than--than--"

"Ah, yes, you say so, Monsieur!" She looked at him gravely; a littlesigh seemed to breathe upon her lips; she leaned forward nearer thefire, her face wistful in the thin, rosy light, and it seemed to him hehad never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

He came across to her and sat upon a stool at her feet. "On my soul, " hebegan huskily, "I swear--"

She laid her finger on her lips, shaking her head gently; and he wassilent, while the intelligent maid--at that moment entering--arranged atea-table and departed. 

"American an' Russian, they are the worse, " said the Countessthoughtfully, as she served him with a generous cup, laced with rum, "but the American he is the bes' to play _wiz_. " Mellin found herirresistible when she said "wiz. "

"Why is that?"

"Oh, the Russian play high, yes--but the American"--she laugheddelightedly and stretched her arms wide--"he make' it all a joke! He isbeeg like his beeg country. If he win or lose, he don' care! Ah, I mus'tell you of my great American frien', that Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, who is comin' to Rome. You have heard of Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow inAmerica?"

"I remember hearing that name. "

"Ah, I shall make you know him. He is a man of distinction; he did sitin your Chamber of Deputies--what you call it?--yes, your Con-gress. Heis funny, eccentric--always he roar like a lion--Boum!--but so simple, so good, a man of such fine heart--so lovable!"

"I'll be glad to meet him, " said Mellin coldly. 

"An', oh, yes, I almos' forget to tell you, " she went on, "your frien', that dear Cooley, he is on his way from Monte Carlo in his automobile. Ihave a note from him to-day. "

"Good sort of fellow, little Cooley, in his way, " remarked her companiongraciously. "Not especially intellectual or that, you know. His fatherwas a manufacturer chap, I believe, or something of the sort. I supposeyou saw a lot of him in Paris?"

"Eh, I thought he is dead!" cried Madame de Vaurigard. 

"The father is. I mean, little Cooley. "

"Oh, yes, " she laughed softly. "We had some gay times, a little partyof us. We shall be happy here, too; you will see. I mus' make a littledinner very soon, but not unless you will come. You will?"

"Do you want me very much?"

He placed his empty cup on the table and leaned closer to her, smiling. She did not smile in response; instead, her eyes fell and there was thefaintest, pathetic quiver of her lower lip. 

"Already you know that, " she said in a low voice. 

She rose quickly, turned away from him and walked across the room to thecurtains which opened upon the hall. One of these she drew back. 

"My frien', you mus' go now, " she said in the same low voice. "To-morrowI will see you again. Come at four an' you shall drive with me--butnot--not more--_now_. Please!"

She stood waiting, not looking at him, but with head bent and eyesveiled. As he came near she put out a limp hand. He held it for a fewseconds of distinctly emotional silence, then strode swiftly into thehall. 

She immediately let the curtain fall behind him, and as he got hishat and coat he heard her catch her breath sharply with a sound like alittle sob. 

Dazed with glory, he returned to the hotel. In the lobby he approachedthe glittering concierge and said firmly:

"What is the Salone Margherita? Cam you get me a box there to-night?"

IV. Good Fellowship

He confessed his wickedness to Madame de Vaurigard the next afternoonas they drove out the Appian Way. "A fellow must have just a bit ofa fling, you know, " he said; "and, really, Salone Margherita isn't sotremendously wicked. "

She shook her head at him in friendly raillery. "Ah, that may be;but how many of those little dancing-girl' have you invite to supperafterward?"

This was a delicious accusation, and though he shook his head invirtuous denial he was before long almost convinced that he _had_ givena rather dashing supper after the vaudeville and had _not_ gone quietlyback to the hotel, only stopping by the way to purchase an orange and apocketful of horse-chestnuts to eat in his room. 

It was a happy drive for Robert Russ Mellin, though not happier thanthat of the next day. Three afternoons they spent driving over theCampagna, then back to Madame de Vaurigard's apartment for tea by thefirelight, till the enraptured American began to feel that the dream inwhich he had come to live must of happy necessity last forever. 

On the fourth afternoon, as he stepped out of the hotel elevator intothe corridor, he encountered Mr. Sneyd. 

"Just stottin', eh?" said the Englishman, taking an envelope from hispocket. "Lucky I caught you. This is for you. I just saw the Cantessand she teold me to give it you. Herry and read it and kem on t' theAmairikin Baw. Chap I want you to meet. Eold Cooley's thyah too. Gawt inwith his tourin'-caw at noon. "

 "You will forgive, dear friend, " wrote Madame de Vaurigard, "if I ask you that we renounce our drive to-day. You see, I wish to have that little dinner to-night and must make preparation. Honorable Chandler Pedlow arrived this morning from Paris and that droll Mr. Cooley I have learn is coincidentally arrived also. You see I think it would be very pleasant to have the dinner to welcome these friends on their arrival. You will come surely--or I shall be so truly miserable. You know it perhaps too well! We shall have a happy evening if you come to console us for renouncing our drive. A thousand of my prettiest wishes for you. 

 "Helene. "

The signature alone consoled him. To have that note from her, to own it, was like having one of her gloves or her fan. He would keep it forever, he thought; indeed, he more than half expressed a sentiment to thateffect in the response which he wrote in the aquarium, while Sneydwaited for him at a table near by. The Englishman drew certainconclusions in regard to this reply, since it permitted a waitingfriend to consume three long tumblers of brandy-and-soda before it wasfinished. However, Mr. Sneyd kept his reflections to himself, and, whenthe epistle had been dispatched by a messenger, took the American'sarm and led him to the "American Bar" of the hotel, a region hithertounexplored by Mellin. 

Leaning against the bar were Cooley and the man whom Mellin had seenlolling beside Madame de Vaurigard in Cooley's automobile in Paris, the same gross person for whom he had instantly conceived a strongrepugnance, a feeling not at once altered by a closer view. 

Cooley greeted Mellin uproariously and Mr. Sneyd introduced the fat man. "Mr. Mellin, the Honorable Chandler Pedlow, " he said; nor was the shockto the first-named gentleman lessened by young Cooley's adding, "Bestfeller in the world!"

Mr. Pedlow's eyes were sheltered so deeply beneath florid rolls of fleshthat all one saw of them was an inscrutable gleam of blue; but, smallthough they were, they were not shifty, for they met Mellin's with asquareness that was almost brutal. He offered a fat paw, wet by a fullglass which he set down too suddenly on the bar. 

"Shake, " he said, in a loud and husky voice, "and be friends! Tommy, " headded to the attendant, "another round of Martinis. "

"Not for me, " said Mellin hastily. "I don't often--"

"_What!_" Mr. Pedlow roared suddenly. "Why, the first words Countess deVaurigard says to me this afternoon was, 'I want you to meet my youngfriend Mellin, ' she says; 'the gamest little Indian that ever come downthe pike! He's game, ' she says--'he'll see you _all_ under the table!'That's what the smartest little woman in the world, the Countess deVaurigard, says about you. "

This did not seem very closely to echo Madame de Vaurigard's habit ofphrasing, but Mellin perceived that it might be only the fat man's wayof putting things. 

"You ain't goin' back on _her_, are you?" continued Mr. Pedlow. "Youain't goin' to make her out a liar? I tell you, when the Countess deVaurigard says a man 's game, he is game!" He laid his big paw cordiallyon Mellin's shoulder and smiled, lowering his voice to a friendlywhisper. "And I'll bet ten thousand dollars right out of my pants pocketyou _are_ game, too!"

He pressed a glass into the other's hand. Smiling feebly, theembarrassed Mellin accepted it. 

"Make it four more, Tommy, " said Pedlow. "And here, " continuedthis thoughtful man, "I don't go bandying no ladies' names around abar-room--that ain't my style--but I do want to propose a toast. I won'tname her, but you all know who I mean. "

"Sure we do, " interjected Cooley warmly. "Queen! That's what she is. "

"Here's _to_ her, " continued Mr. Pedlow. "Here's to her--brightest andbest--and no heel-taps! And now let's set down over in the corner andtake it easy. It ain't hardly five o'clock yet, and we can set herecomfortable, gittin' ready for dinner, until half-past six, anyway. "

Whereupon the four seated themselves about a tabouret in the corner, and, a waiter immediately bringing them four fresh glasses from the bar, Mellin began to understand what Mr. Pedlow meant by "gittin' ready fordinner. " The burden of the conversation was carried almost entirelyby the Honorable Chandler, though Cooley, whose boyish face was deeplyflushed, now and then managed to interrupt by talking louder than thefat man. Mr. Sneyd sat silent. 

"Good ole Sneyd, " said Pedlow. "_He_ never talks, jest saws wood. OnlyBritisher I ever liked. Plays cards like a goat. "

"He played a mighty good game on the steamer, " said Cooley warmly. 

"I don't care what he did on the steamer, he played like a goat theonly time _I_ ever played with him. You know he did. I reckon you was_there!_"

"Should say I _was_ there! He played mighty well--"

"Like a goat, " reiterated the fat man firmly. 

"Nothing of the sort. You had a run of hands, that was all. Nobody cango against the kind of luck you had that night; and you took it awayfrom Sneyd and me in rolls. But we'll land you pretty soon, won't we, ole Sneydie?"

"We sh'll have a shawt at him, at least, " said the Englishman. 

"Perhaps he won't want us to try, " young Cooley pursued derisively. "Perhaps he thinks I play like a goat, too!"

Mr. Pedlow threw back his head and roared. "Give me somep'n easy! Youdon't know no more how to play a hand of cards than a giraffe does. I'llthrow in all of my Blue Gulch gold-stock--and it's worth eight hundredthousand dollars if it's worth a cent--I'll put it up against that tinautomobile of yours, divide chips even and play you freeze-out for it. You play cards? Go learn hop-scotch!"

"You wait!" exclaimed the other indignantly. "Next time we play we'llmake you look so small you'll think you're back in Congress!"

At this Mr. Pedlow again threw back his head and roared, his vast bodyso shaken with mirth that the glass he held in his hand dropped to thefloor. 

"There, " said Cooley, "that's the second Martini you've spilled. You'retwo behind the rest of us. "

"What of it?" bellowed the fat man. "There's plenty comin', ain't there?Four more, Tommy, and bring cigars. Don't take a cent from none of theseIndians. Gentlemen, your money ain't good here. I own this bar, and thisis my night. "

Mellin had begun to feel at ease, and after a time--as they continued tosit--he realized that his repugnance to Mr. Pedlow was wearing off; hefelt that there must be good in any one whom Madame de Vaurigard liked. She had spoken of Pedlow often on their drives; he was an "eccentric, "she said, an "original. " Why not accept her verdict? Besides, Pedlowwas a man of distinction and force; he had been in Congress; he was amillionaire; and, as became evident in the course of a long recital ofthe principal events of his career, most of the great men of the timewere his friends and proteges. 

"'Well, Mack, ' says I one day when we were in the House together"--(thusMr. Pedlow, alluding to the late President McKinley)--"'Mack, ' says I, 'if you'd drop that double standard business'--he was waverin' towardsilver along then--'I don't know but I might git the boys to nominateyou fer President. ' 'I'll think it over, ' he says--'I'll think it over. 'You remember me tellin' you about that at the time, don't you, Sneyd, when you was in the British Legation at Washin'ton?"

"Pahfictly, " said Mr. Sneyd, lighting a cigar with great calmness. 

"'Yes, ' I says, 'Mack, ' I says, 'if you'll drop it, I'll turn in and gityou the nomination. '"

"Did he drop it?" asked Mellin innocently. 

Mr. Pedlow leaned forward and struck the young man's knee a resoundingblow with the palm of his hand. 

"He was _nominated_, wasn't he?"

"Time to dress, " announced Mr. Sneyd, looking at his watch. 

"One more round first, " insisted Cooley with prompt vehemence. "Let'sfinish with our first toast again. Can't drink that too often. "

This proposition was received with warmest approval, and they drankstanding. "Brightest and best!" shouted Mr. Pedlow. 

"Queen! What she is!" exclaimed Cooley. 

_"Ma belle Marquise!"_ whispered Mellin tenderly, as the rim touched hislips. 

A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes were shielded bytortoise-rimmed spectacles, had come into the room and now stood quietlyat the bar, sipping a glass of Vichy. He was sharply observant of theparty as it broke up, Pedlow and Sneyd preceding the younger men tothe corridor, and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger steppedquickly forward, speaking Cooley's name. 

"What's the matter?"

"Perhaps you don't remember me. My name's Cornish. I'm a newspaper man, a correspondent. " (He named a New York paper. ) "I'm down here to geta Vatican story. I knew your father for a number of years before hisdeath, and I think I may claim that he was a friend of mine. "

"That's good, " said the youth cordially. "If I hadn't a fine startalready, and wasn't in a hurry to dress, we'd have another. "

"You were pointed out to me in Paris, " continued Cornish. "I foundwhere you were staying and called on you the next day, but you had juststarted for the Riviera. " He hesitated, glancing at Mellin. "Can yougive me half a dozen words with you in private?"

"You'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid. I've only got about ten minutesto dress. See you to-morrow. "

"I should like it to be as soon as possible, " the journalist saidseriously. "It isn't on my own account, and I--"

"All right. You come to my room at ten t'morrow morning?"

"Well, if you can't possibly make it to-night, " said Cornishreluctantly. "I wish--"

"Can't possibly. "

And Cooley, taking Mellin by the arm, walked rapidly down the corridor. "Funny ole correspondent, " he murmured. "What do _I_ know about theVatican?"

V. Lady Mount Rhyswicke

The four friends of Madame de Vaurigard were borne to her apartment fromthe Magnifique in Cooley's big car. They sailed triumphantly down and upthe hills in a cool and bracing air, under a moon that shone as brightlyfor them as it had for Caesar, and Mellin's soul was buoyant within him. He thought of Cranston and laughed aloud. What would Cranston say if itcould see him in a sixty-horse touring-car, with two millionaires and anEnglish diplomat, brother of an earl, and all on the way to dine with acountess? If Mary Kramer could see him!. .. Poor Mary Kramer! Poor littleMary Kramer!

A man-servant took their coats in Madame de Vaurigard's hall, wherethey could hear through the curtains the sound of one or two voices incheerful conversation. 

Sneyd held up his hand. 

"Listen, " he said. "Shawly, that isn't Lady Mount-Rhyswicke's voice! Shecouldn't be in Reom--always a Rhyswicke Caws'l for Decembah. By Jev, itis!"

"Nothin' of the kind, " said Pedlow. "I know Lady Mount-Rhyswicke as wellas I know you. I started her father in business when he was clerkin'behind a counter in Liverpool. I give him the money to begin on. 'Makegood, ' says I, 'that's all. Make good!' And he done it, too. Educatedhis daughter fit fer a princess, married her to Mount-Rhyswicke, andwhen he died left her ten million dollars if he left her a cent! I knowMadge Mount-Rhyswicke and that ain't her voice. "

A peal of silvery laughter rang from the other side of the curtain. 

"They've heard you, " said Cooley. 

"An' who could help it?" Madame de Vaurigard herself threw back thecurtains. "Who could help hear our great, dear, ole lion? How he roar'!"

She wore a white velvet "princesse" gown of a fashion which was a shadeless than what is called "daring, " with a rope of pearls falling fromher neck and a diamond star in her dark hair. Standing with one armuplifted to the curtains, and with the mellow glow of candles andfirelight behind her, she was so lovely that both Mellin and Cooleystood breathlessly still until she changed her attitude. This she didonly to move toward them, extending a hand to each, letting Cooley seizethe right and Mellin the left. 

Each of them was pleased with what he got, particularly Mellin. "Theleft is nearer the heart, " he thought. 

She led them through the curtains, not withdrawing her hands until theyentered the salon. She might have led them out of her fifth-story windowin that fashion, had she chosen. 

"My two wicked boys!" she laughed tenderly. This also pleased both ofthem, though each would have preferred to be her only wicked boy--apreference which, perhaps, had something to do with the later events ofthe evening. 

"Aha! I know you both; before twenty minute' you will be makin' love toLady Mount-Rhyswicke. Behol' those two already! An' they are only olefrien's. "

She pointed to Pedlow and Sneyd. The fat man was shouting at a woman inpink satin, who lounged, half-reclining, among a pile of cushions upon adivan near the fire; Sneyd gallantly bending over her to kiss her hand. 

"It is a very little dinner, you see, " continued the hostess, "onlyseven, but we shall be seven time' happier. "

The seventh person proved to be the Italian, Corni, who had surrenderedhis seat in Madame de Vaurigard's victoria to Mellin on the Pincio. Hepresently made his appearance followed by a waiter bearing a tray ofglasses filled with a pink liquid, while the Countess led her two wickedboys across the room to present them to Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. AlreadyMellin was forming sentences for his next letter to the CranstonTelegraph: "Lady Mount-Rhyswicke said to me the other evening, while discussing the foreign policy of Great Britain, in Comtesse deVaurigard's salon. .. " "An English peeress of pronounced literary acumenhas been giving me rather confidentially her opinion of our Americanpoets. .. "

The inspiration of these promising fragments was a large, weary-lookingperson, with no lack of powdered shoulder above her pink bodice and aprofusion of "undulated" hair of so decided a blond that it might havebeen suspected that the decision had lain with the lady herself. 

"Howjdo, " she said languidly, when Mellin's name was pronounced to her. "There's a man behind you tryin' to give you something to drink. "

"Who was it said these were Martinis?" snorted Pedlow. "They've gotperfumery in 'em. "

"Ah, what a bad lion it is!" Madame de Vaurigard lifted both hands inmock horror. "Roar, lion, roar!" she cried. "An' think of the emotion ofour good Cavaliere Corni, who have come an hour early jus' to make themfor us! I ask Monsieur Mellin if it is not good. "

"And I'll leave it to Cooley, " said Pedlow. "If he can drink all of hisI'll eat crow!"

Thus challenged, the two young men smilingly accepted glasses from thewaiter, and lifted them on high. 

"Same toast, " said Cooley. "Queen!"

_"A la belle Marquise!"_

Gallantly they drained the glasses at a gulp, and Madame de Vaurigardclapped her hands. 

"Bravo!" she cried. "You see? Corni and I, we win. "

"Look at their faces!" said Mr. Pedlow, tactlessly drawing attention towhat was, for the moment, an undeniably painful sight. "Don't tell me anItalian knows how to make a good Martini!"

Mellin profoundly agreed, but, as he joined the small procession to theCountess' dinner-table, he was certain that an Italian at least knew howto make a strong one. 

The light in the dining-room was provided by six heavily-shaded candleson the table; the latter decorated with delicate lines of orchids. Thechairs were large and comfortable, covered with tapestry; the glass wasold Venetian, and the servants, moving like useful ghosts in the shadowoutside the circle of mellow light, were particularly efficient in thematter of keeping the wine-glasses full. Madame de Vaurigard had putPedlow on her right, Cooley on her left, with Mellin directly oppositeher, next to Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. Mellin was pleased, because hethought he would have the Countess's face toward him. Anything wouldhave pleased him just then. 

"This is the kind of table _everybody_ ought to have, " he observed tothe party in general, as he finished his first glass of champagne. "I'mgoing to have it like this at my place in the States--if I ever decideto go back. I'll have six separate candlesticks like this, not acandelabrum, and that will be the only light in the room. And I'll neverhave anything but orchids on my table--"

"For my part, " Lady Mount-Rhyswicke interrupted in the loud, tiredmonotone which seemed to be her only manner of speaking, "I like morelight. I like all the light that's goin'. "

"If Lady Mount-Rhyswicke sat at _my_ table, " returned Mellin dashingly, "I should wish all the light in the world to shine upon so happy anevent. "

"Hear the man!" she drawled. "He's proposing to me. Thinks I'm a widow. "

There was a chorus of laughter, over which rose the bellow of Mr. Pedlow. 

"'He's game!' she says--and _ain't_ he?"

Across the table Madame de Vaurigard's eyes met Mellin's with a mockingintelligence so complete that he caught her message without need of thewords she noiselessly formed with her lips: "I tol' you you would bemaking love to her!"

He laughed joyously in answer. Why shouldn't he flirt with LadyMount-Rhyswicke? He was thoroughly happy; his Helene, his _belleMarquise_, sat across the table from him sending messages to him withher eyes. He adored her, but he liked Lady Mount-Rhyswicke--he likedeverybody and everything in the world. He liked Pedlow particularly, andit no longer troubled him that the fat man should be a friend of Madamede Vaurigard. Pedlow was a "character" and a wit as well. Mellin laughedheartily at everything the Honorable Chandler Pedlow said. 

"This is life, " remarked the young man to his fair neighbor. 

"What is? Sittin' round a table, eatin' and drinkin'?"

"Ah, lovely skeptic!" She looked at him strangely, but he continued withgrowing enthusiasm: "I mean to sit at such a table as this, with sucha chef, with such wines--to know one crowded hour like this is to live!Not a thing is missing; all this swagger furniture, the rich atmosphereof smartness about the whole place; best of all, the company. It's agreat thing to have the _real_ people around you, the right sort, youknow, socially; people you'd ask to your own table at home. There areonly seven, but every one _distingue_, every one--"

She leaned both elbows on the table with her hands palm to palm, and, resting her cheek against the back of her left hand, looked at himsteadily. 

"And you--are you distinguished, too?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be much known over _here_, " he said modestly. 

"Do you write poetry?"

"Oh, not professionally, though it is published. I suppose"--he sippedhis champagne with his head a little to one side as though judging itsquality--"I suppose I 've been more or less a dilettante. I've knockedabout the world a good bit. "

"Helene says you're one of these leisure American billionaires like Mr. Cooley there, " she said in her tired voice. 

"Oh, none of us are really quite billionaires. " He laugheddeprecatingly. 

"No, I suppose not--not really. Go on and tell me some more about lifeand this distinguished company. "

"Hey, folks!" Mr. Pedlow's roar broke in upon this dialogue. "You twoare gittin' mighty thick over there. We're drinking a toast, and you'llhave to break away long enough to join in. "

"Queen! That's what she is!" shouted Cooley. 

Mellin lifted his glass with the others and drank to Madame deVaurigard, but the woman at his side did not change her attitude andcontinued to sit with her elbows on the table, her cheek on the back ofher hand, watching him thoughtfully. 

VI. Rake's Progress

Many toasts were uproariously honored, the health of each member of theparty in turn, then the country of each: France and England first, out of courtesy to the ladies, Italy next, since this beautiful andextraordinary meeting of distinguished people (as Mellin remarked in ashort speech he felt called upon to make) took place in that wonderfulland, then the United States. This last toast the gentlemen felt itnecessary to honor by standing in their chairs. 

[_Song: The Star-Spangled Banner--without words--by Mr. Cooley andchorus. _]

When the cigars were brought, the ladies graciously remained, addingtiny spirals of smoke from their cigarettes to the layers of blue hazewhich soon overhung the table. Through this haze, in the gentle light(which seemed to grow softer and softer) Mellin saw the face of Helenede Vaurigard, luminous as an angel's. She _was_ an angel--and the otherswere gods. What could be more appropriate in Rome? Lady Mount-Rhyswickewas Juno, but more beautiful. For himself, he felt like a god too, Olympic in serenity. 

He longed for mysterious dangers. How debonair he would stroll amongthem! He wished to explore the unknown; felt the need of a splendidadventure, and had a happy premonition that one was coming nearer andnearer. He favored himself with a hopeful vision of the apartment onfire, Robert Russ Mellin smiling negligently among the flames and Madamede Vaurigard kneeling before him in adoration. Immersed in delight, hepuffed his cigar and let his eyes rest dreamily upon the face of Helene. He was quite undisturbed by an argument, more a commotion than a debate, between Mr. Pedlow and young Cooley. It ended by their rising, thelatter overturning a chair in his haste. 

"I don't know the rudiments, don't I!" cried the boy. "You wait! OleSneydie and I'll trim you down! Corni says he'll play, too. Come on, Mellin. "

"I won't go unless Helene goes, " said Mellin. "What are you going to dowhen you get there?"

"Alas, my frien'!" exclaimed Madame de Vaurigard, rising, "is it notwhat I tol' you? Always you are never content wizout your play. You cometo dinner an' when it is finish' you play, play, play!"

"_Play_?" He sprang to his feet. "Bravo! That's the very thing I've beenwanting to do. I knew there was something I wanted to do, but I couldn'tthink what it was. "

Lady Mount-Rhyswicke followed the others into the salon, but Madame deVaurigard waited just inside the doorway for Mellin. 

"_High_ play!" he cried. "We must play high! I won't play any otherway. --I want to play _high_!"

"Ah, wicked one! What did I tell you?"

He caught her hand. "And you must play too, Helene. "

"No, no, " she laughed breathlessly. 

"Then you'll watch. Promise you'll watch me. I won't let you go till youpromise to watch me. "

"I shall adore it, my frien'!"

"Mellin, " called Cooley from the other room. "You comin' or not?"

"Can't you see me?" answered Mellin hilariously, entering with Madame deVaurigard, who was rosy with laughter. "Peculiar thing to look at a manand not see him. "

Candles were lit in many sconces on the walls, and the card-table hadbeen pushed to the centre of the room, little towers of blue, whiteand scarlet counters arranged upon it in orderly rows like miniaturecastles. 

"Now, then, " demanded Cooley, "are the ladies goin' to play?"

"Never!" cried Madame de Vaurigard. 

"All right, " said the youth cheerfully; "you can look on. Come and sitby me for a mascot. "

"You'll need a mascot, my boy!" shouted Pedlow. "That's right, though;take her. "

He pushed a chair close to that in which Cooley had already seatedhimself, and Madame de Vaurigard dropped into it, laughing. "Mellin, you set there, " he continued, pushing the young man into a seat oppositeCooley. "We'll give both you young fellers a mascot. " He turned to LadyMount-Rhyswicke, who had gone to the settee by the fire. "Madge, youcome and set by Mellin, " he commanded jovially. "Maybe he'll forget youain't a widow again. "

"I don't believe I care much about bein' anybody's mascot to-night, " sheanswered. There was a hint of anger in her tired monotone. 

"What?" He turned from the table and walked over to the fireplace. "Ireckon I didn't understand you, " he said quietly, almost gently. "Youbetter come, hadn't you?"

She met his inscrutable little eyes steadily. A faint redness slowlyrevealed itself on her powdered cheeks; then she followed him back tothe table and took the place he had assigned to her at Mellin's elbow. 

"I'll bank, " said Pedlow, taking a chair between Cooley and the Italian, "unless somebody wants to take it off my hands. Now, what are weplaying?"

"Pokah, " responded Sneyd with mild sarcasm. 

"Bravo!" cried Mellin. "That's _my_ game. Ber-_ravo!_"

This was so far true: it was the only game upon which he had everventured money; he had played several times when the wagers were allowedto reach a limit of twenty-five cents. 

"You know what I mean, I reckon, " said Pedlow. "I mean what we areplayin' _fer_?"

"Twenty-five franc limit, " responded Cooley authoritatively. "Double forjacks. Play two hours and settle when we quit. "

Mellin leaned back in his chair. "You call that high?" he asked, with asniff of contempt. "Why not double it?"

The fat man hammered the table with his fist delightedly. "'He's game, 'she says. 'He's the gamest little Indian ever come down the big road!'she says. Was she right? What? Maybe she wasn't! We'll double it beforevery long, my boy; this'll do to start on. There. " He distributedsome of the small towers of ivory counters and made a memorandum in anotebook. "There's four hundred apiece. "

"That all?" inquired Mellin, whereupon Mr. Pedlow uproariously repeatedMadame de Vaurigard's alleged tribute. 

As the game began, the intelligent-looking maid appeared from thedining-room, bearing bottles of whisky and soda, and these she depositedupon small tables at the convenience of the players, so that at theconclusion of the first encounter in the gentle tournament there wasmaterial for a toast to the gallant who had won it. 

"Here's to the gamest Indian of us all, " proposed the fat man. "Did younotice him call me with a pair of tens? And me queen-high!"

Mellin drained a deep glass in honor of himself. "On my soul, Chan'Pedlow, I think you're the bes' fellow in the whole world, " he saidgratefully. "Only trouble with you--you don't want to play high enough. "

He won again and again, adding other towers of counters to his originalallotment, so that he had the semblance of a tiny castle. When the cardshad been dealt for the fifth time he felt the light contact of a slippertouching his foot under the table. 

That slipper, he decided (from the nature of things) could belong tonone other than his Helene, and even as he came to this conclusion theslight pressure against his foot was gently but distinctly increasedthrice. He pressed the slipper in return with his shoe, at the same timegiving Madame de Vaurigard a look of grateful surprise and tenderness, which threw her into a confusion so evidently genuine that for anunworthy moment he had a jealous suspicion she had meant the littlecaress for some other. 

It was a disagreeable thought, and, in the hope of banishing it, herefilled his glass; but his mood had begun to change. It seemed to himthat Helene was watching Cooley a great deal too devotedly. Why had sheconsented to sit by Cooley, when she had promised to watch Robert RussMellin? He observed the pair stealthily. 

Cooley consulted her in laughing whispers upon every discard, upon everybet. Now and then, in their whisperings, Cooley's hair touched hers;sometimes she laid her hand on his the more conveniently to look at hiscards. Mellin began to be enraged. Did she think that puling milksophad as much as a shadow of the daring, the devilry, the carelessness ofconsequences which lay within Robert Russ Mellin? "Consequences?" Whatwere they? There were no such things! She would not look at him--well, he would make her! Thenceforward he raised every bet by another to theextent of the limit agreed upon. 

Mr. Cooley was thoroughly happy. He did not resemble Ulysses; he wouldnever have had himself bound to the mast; and there were already soundsof unearthly sweetness in his ears. His conferences with his lovelyhostess easily consoled him for his losses. In addition, he wastriumphing over the boaster, for Mr. Pedlow, with a very ill graceand swearing (not under his breath), was losing too. The Countess, reiterating for the hundredth time that Cooley was a "wicked one, "sweetly constituted herself his cup-bearer; kept his glass full andbrought him fresh cigars. 

Mellin dealt her furious glances, and filled his own glass, for LadyMount-Rhyswicke plainly had no conception of herself in the role of aHebe. The hospitable Pedlow, observing this neglect, was moved to chideher. 

"Look at them two cooing doves over there, " he said reproachfully, ajerk of his bulbous thumb indicating Madame de Vaurigard and her youngprotege. "Madge, can't you do nothin' fer our friend the Indian? Can'tyou even help him to sody?"

"Oh, perhaps, " she answered with the slightest flash from her tiredeyes. Then she nonchalantly lifted Mellin's replenished glass from thetable and drained it. This amused Cooley. 

"I like that!" he chuckled. "That's one way of helpin' a feller! Helene, can you do any better than that?"

"Ah, this dear, droll Cooley!"

The tantalizing witch lifted the youth's glass to his lips and lethim drink, as a mother helps a thirsty child. "_Bebe!_" she laughedendearingly. 

As the lovely Helene pronounced that word, Lady Mount-Rhyswicke wasleaning forward to replace Mellin's empty glass upon the table. 

"I don't care whether you're a widow or not!" he shouted furiously. Andhe resoundingly kissed her massive shoulder. 

There was a wild shout of laughter; even the imperturbable Sneyd (whohad continued to win steadily) wiped tears from his eyes, and Madamede Vaurigard gave way to intermittent hysteria throughout the ensuinghalf-hour. 

For a time Mellin sat grimly observing this inexplicable merriment witha cold smile. 

"Laugh on!" he commanded with bitter satire, some ten minutes after playhad been resumed--and was instantly obeyed. 

Whereupon his mood underwent another change, and he became convincedthat the world was a warm and kindly place, where it was good to live. He forgot that he was jealous of Cooley and angry with the Countess; heliked everybody again, especially Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. "Won't yousit farther forward?" he begged her earnestly; "so that I can see yourbeautiful golden hair?"

He heard but dimly the spasmodic uproar that followed. "Laugh on!" herepeated with a swoop of his arm. "I don't care! Don't you care either, Mrs. Mount-Rhyswicke. Please sit where I can see your beautiful goldenhair. Don't be afraid I'll kiss you again. I wouldn't do it for thewhole world. You're one of the noblest women I ever knew. I feel that'strue. I don't know how I know it, but I know it. Let 'em laugh!"

After this everything grew more and more hazy to him. For a time therewas, in the centre of the haze, a nimbus of light which revealed hiscards to him and the towers of chips which he constantly called for andwhich as constantly disappeared--like the towers of a castle in Spain. Then the haze thickened, and the one thing clear to him was a phrasefrom an old-time novel he had read long ago:

"Debt of honor. "

The three words appeared to be written in flames against a background ofdense fog. A debt of honor was as promissory note which had to bepaid on Monday, and the appeal to the obdurate grandfather--a peer ofEngland, the Earl of Mount-Rhyswicke, in fact--was made at midnight, Sunday. The fog grew still denser, lifted for a moment while he wrotehis name many times on slips of blue paper; closed down once more, andagain lifted--out-of-doors this time--to show him a lunatic ballet ofmoons dancing streakily upon the horizon. 

He heard himself say quite clearly, "All right, old man, thank you;but don't bother about me, " to a pallid but humorous Cooley in eveningclothes; the fog thickened; oblivion closed upon him for a seemingsecond. .. . 

VII. The Next Morning

Suddenly he sat up in bed in his room at the Magnifique, gazing upon adisconsolate Cooley in gray tweeds who sat heaped in a chair at the footof the bed with his head in his hands. 

Mellin's first sensation was of utter mystification; his second was morecorporeal: the consciousness of physical misery, of consuming fever, ofaches that ran over his whole body, converging to a dreadful climax inhis head, of a throat so immoderately partched it seemed to crackle, anda thirst so avid it was a passion. His eye fell upon a carafe of wateron a chair at his bedside; he seized upon it with a shaking hand anddrank half its contents before he set it down. The action attractedhis companion's attention and he looked up, showing a pale and haggardcountenance. 

"How do you feel?" inquired Cooley with a wan smile. 

Mellin's head dropped back upon the pillow and he made one or twopainful efforts to speak before he succeeded in finding a ghastlysemblance of his voice. 

"I thought I was at Madame de Vaurigard's. "

"You were, " said the other, adding grimly: "We both were. "

"But that was only a minute ago. "

"It was six hours ago. It's goin' on ten o'clock in the morning. "

"I don't understand how that can be. How did I get here?"

"I brought you. I was pretty bad, but you--I never saw anything likeyou! From the time you kissed Lady Mount-Rhyswicke--"

Mellin sat bolt upright in bed, staring wildly. He began to trembleviolently. 

"Don't you remember that?" asked Cooley. 

Suddenly he did. The memory of it came with inexorable clarity, hecrossed forearms over his horror-stricken face and fell back upon hispillow. 

"Oh, " he gasped. "Un-speakable! Un-speakable!"

"Lord! Don't worry about that! I don't think she minded. "

"It's the thought of Madame de Vaurigard--it kills me! The horror ofit--that I should do such a thing in her house! She'll never speak tome again, she oughtn't to; she ought to send her groom to beat me! Youcan't think what I've lost--"

"Can't I!" Mr. Cooley rose from his chair and began to pace up and downthe chamber. "I can guess to within a thousand francs of what _I_'velost! I had to get the hotel to cash a check on New York for me thismorning. I've a habit of carrying all my money in bills, and a fooltrick, too. Well, I'm cured of it!"

"Oh, if it were only a little _money_ and nothing else that I'd lost!The money means nothing. " Mellin choked. 

"I suppose you're pretty well fixed. Well, so am I, " Cooley shook hishead, "but money certainly means something to me!"

"It wouldn't if you'd thrown away the most precious friendship of yourlife. "

"See here, " said Cooley, halting at the foot of the bed and looking athis stricken companion from beneath frowning brows, "I guess I can seehow it is with you, and I'll tell you frankly it's been the same withme. I never met such a fascinating woman in my life: she throws areg'ler ole-fashioned _spell_ over you! Now I hate to say it, but Ican't help it, because it plain hits me in the face every time I thinkof it; the truth is--well, sir, I'm afraid you and me have had littlered soldier-coats and caps put on us and strings tied to our belts whilewe turned somersets for the children. "

"I don't understand. I don't know what you're talking about. "

"No? It seems to get more and more simple to me. I've been thinking itall over and over again. I can't _help_ it! See here: I met Sneyd on thesteamer, without any introduction. He sort of warmed into the game inthe smoking-room, and he won straight along the trip. He called on me inLondon and took me to meet the Countess at her hotel. We three wentto the theatre and lunch and so forth a few times; and when I left forParis she turned up on the way: that's when you met her. Couple of dayslater, Sneyd came over, and he and the Countess introduced me to dearole friend Pedlow. So you see, I don't rightly even know who any of 'emreally _are_: just took 'em for granted, as it were. We had lots of fun, I admit that, honkin' about in my car. We only played cards once, andthat was in her apartment the last night before I left Paris, but thatone time Pedlow won fifteen thousand francs from me. When I told them myplans, how I was goin' to motor down to Rome, she said _she_ would be inRome--and, I tell you, I was happy as a poodle-pup about it. Sneyd saidhe might be in Rome along about then, and open-hearted ole Pedlow saidnot to be surprised if _he_ turned up, too. Well, he did, almost to theminute, and in the meantime she'd got _you_ hooked on, fine and tight. "

"I don't understand you, " Mellin lifted himself painfully on an elbow. "I don't know what you're getting at, but it seems to me that you'respeaking disrespectfully of an angel that I've insulted, and I--"

"Now see here, Mellin, I'll tell you something. " The boy's white faceshowed sudden color and there was a catch in his voice. "I was--I'vebeen mighty near in _love_ with that woman! But I've had a kind of ashock; I've got my common-sense back, and I'm _not_, any more. I don'tknow exactly how much money I had, but it was between thirty-five andthirty-eight thousand francs, and Sneyd won it all after we took off thelimit--over seven thousand dollars--at her table last night. Putting twoand two together, honestly it looks bad. It looks _mighty_ bad! Now, I'mpretty well fixed, and yesterday I didn't care whether school kept ornot, but seven thousand dollars is real money to anybody! My old manworked pretty hard for his first seven thousand, I guess, and"--hegulped--"he'd think a lot of me for lettin' go of it the way I did lastnight, _wouldn't_ he? You never _see_ things like this till the nextmorning! And you remember that other woman sat where she could see everyhand _you_ drew, and the Countess--"

"Stop!" Mellin flung one arm up violently, striking the headboard withhis knuckles. "I won't hear a syllable against Madame de Vaurigard!"Young Cooley regarded him steadily for a moment. "Have you rememberedyet, " he said slowly, "how much _you_ lost last night?"

"I only remember that I behaved like an unspeakable boor in the presenceof the divinest creature that ever--"

Cooley disregarded the outburst, and said:

"When we settled, you had a pad of express company checks worth sixhundred dollars. You signed all of 'em and turned 'em over to Sneyd withthree one-hundred-lire bills, which was all the cash you had with you. Then you gave him your note for twelve thousand francs to be paid withinthree days. You made a great deal of fuss about its being a 'debt ofhonor. '" He paused. "You hadn't remembered that, had you?"

Mellin had closed his eyes. He lay quite still and made no answer. 

"No, I'll bet you hadn't, " said Cooley, correctly deducing the fact. "You're well off, or you wouldn't be at this hotel, and, for all I know, you may be fixed so you won't mind your loss as much as I do mine; butit ought to make you kind of charitable toward my suspicions of Madamede Vaurigard's friends. "

The six hundred dollars in express company checks and the threehundred-lire bills were all the money the unhappy Mellin had in theworld, and until he could return to Cranston and go back to work in thereal-estate office again, he had no prospect of any more. He had noteven his steamer ticket. In the shock of horror and despair he whisperedbrokenly:

"I don't care if they 're the worst people in the world, they're betterthan I am!"

The other's gloom cleared a little at this. "Well, you _have_ got it!"he exclaimed briskly. "You don't know how different you'll feel after along walk in the open air. " He looked at his watch. "I've got to go andsee what that newspaper-man, Cornish, wants; it's ten o'clock. I'll beback after a while; I want to reason this out with you. I don't deny butit's possible I'm wrong; anyway, you think it over while I'm gone. Youtake a good hard think, will you?"

As he closed the door, Mellin slowly drew the coverlet over his head. Itwas as if he covered the face of some one who had just died. 

VIII. What Cornish Knew

Two hours passed before young Cooley returned. He knocked twice withouta reply; then he came in. 

The coverlet was still over Mellin's head. 

"Asleep?" asked Cooley. 

"No. "

The coverlet was removed by a shaking hand. 

"Murder!" exclaimed Cooley sympathetically, at sight of the other'sface. "A night off certainly does things to you! Better let me get yousome--"

"No. I'll be all right--after while. "

"Then I'll go right ahead with our little troubles. I've decided toleave for Paris by the one-thirty and haven't got a whole lot of time. Cornish is here with me in the hall: he's got something to say that'simportant for you to hear, and I'm goin' to bring him right in. " Hewaved his hand toward the door, which he had left open. "Come along, Cornish. Poor ole Mellin'll play Du Barry with us and give us a morningleevy while he listens in a bed with a palanquin to it. Now let's drawup chairs and be sociable. "

The journalist came in, smoking a long cigar, and took the chair theyouth pushed toward him; but, after a twinkling glance through his bigspectacles at the face on the pillow, he rose and threw the cigar out ofthe window. 

"Go ahead, " said Cooley. "I want you to tell him just what you told me, and when you're through I want to see if he doesn't think I'm SherlockHolmes' little brother. "

"If Mr. Mellin does not feel too ill, " said Cornish dryly; "I know howpainful such cases sometimes--"

"No. " Mellin moistened his parched lips and made a pitiful effort tosmile. "I'll be all right very soon. "

"I am very sorry, " began the journalist, "that I wasn't able to get afew words with Mr. Cooley yesterday evening. Perhaps you noticed that Itried as hard as I could, without using actual force"--he laughed--"todetain him. "

"You did your best, " agreed Cooley ruefully, "and I did my worst. Nobodyever listens till the next day!"

"Well, I'm glad no vital damage was done, anyway, " said Cornish. "Itwould have been pretty hard lines if you two young fellows had beenpoor men, but as it is you're probably none the worse for a lesson likethis. "

"You seem to think seven thousand dollars is a joke, " remarked Cooley. 

Cornish laughed again. "You see, it flatters me to think my time wasso valuable that a ten minutes' talk with me would have saved so muchmoney. "

"I doubt it, " said Cooley. "Ten to one we'd neither of us have believedyou--last night!"

"I doubt it, too. " Cornish turned to Mellin. "I hear that you, Mr. Mellin, are still of the opinion that you were dealing with straightpeople?"

Mellin managed to whisper "Yes. "

"Then, " said Cornish, "I'd better tell you just what I know about it, and you can form your own opinion as to whether I do know or not. I havebeen in the newspaper business on this side for fifteen years, and myheadquarters are in Paris, where these people are very well known. Theman who calls himself 'Chandler Pedlow' was a faro-dealer for Tom Stoutin Chicago when Stout's place was broken up, a good many years ago. There was a real Chandler Pedlow in Congress from a California districtin the early nineties, but he is dead. This man's name is Ben Welch:he's a professional swindler; and the Englishman, Sneyd, is another; aquiet man, not so well known as Welch, and not nearly so clever, but agood 'feeder' for him. The very attractive Frenchwoman who calls herself'Comtesse de Vaurigard' is generally believed to be Sneyd's wife, thoughI could not take the stand on that myself. Welch is the brains of theorganization: you mightn't think it, but he's a very brilliantman--he might have made a great reputation in business if he'd beenstraight--and, with this woman's help, he's carried out some reallyastonishing schemes. His manner is clumsy; _he_ knows that, bless you, but it's the only manner he can manage, and she is so adroit she cansugar-coat even such a pill as that and coax people to swallow it. Idon't know anything about the Italian who is working with them downhere. But a gang of the Welch-Vaurigard-Sneyd type has tentacles allover the Continent; such people are in touch with sharpers everywhere, you see. "

"Yes, " Cooley interpolated, "and with woolly little lambkins, too. "

"Well, " chuckled Cornish, "that's the way they make their living, youknow. "

"Go on and tell him the rest of it, " urged Cooley. 

"About Lady Mount-Rhyswicke, " said Cornish, "it seems strange enough, but she has a perfect right to her name. She is a good deal older thanshe looks, and I've heard she used to be remarkably beautiful. Her thirdhusband was Lord George Mount-Rhyswicke, a man who'd been dropped fromhis clubs, and he deserted her in 1903, but she has not divorced him. Itis said that he is somewhere in South America; however, as to that I donot know. "

Mr. Cornish put the very slightest possible emphasis on the word "know, "and proceeded:

"I've heard that she is sincerely attached to him and sends him moneyfrom time to time, when she has it--though that, too, is third-handinformation. She has been _declasse_ ever since her first divorce. Thatwas a 'celebrated case, ' and she's dropped down pretty far in the world, though I judge she's a good deal the best of this crowd. Exactly whather relations to the others are I don't know, but I imagine that she'spretty thick with 'em. "

"Just a little!" exclaimed Cooley. "She sits behind one of the lambkinsand Helene behind the other while they get their woolly wool clipped. Isuppose the two of 'em signaled what was in every hand we held, thoughI'm sure they needn't have gone to the trouble! Fact is, I don't see whythey bothered about goin' through the form of playin' cards with usat all. They could have taken it away without that! Whee!" Mr. Cooleywhistled loud and long. "And there's loads of wise young men on theocean now, hurryin' over to take our places in the pens. Well, they canhave _mine_! Funny, Mellin: nobody would come up to you or me in theGrand Central in New York and try to sell us greenbacks just as goodas real. But we come over to Europe with our pockets full o' money andstart in to see the Big City with Jesse James in a false mustache on onearm, and Lucresha Borgy, under an assumed name, on the other!"

"I am afraid I agree with you, " said Cornish; "though I must say that, from all I hear, Madame de Vaurigard might put an atmosphere about athing which would deceive almost any one who wasn't on his guard. When aParisienne of her sort is clever at all she's irresistible. "

"I believe you, " Cooley sighed deeply. 

"Yesterday evening, Mr. Mellin, " continued the journalist, "when I sawthe son of my old friend in company with Welch and Sneyd, of course Itried to warn him. I've often seen them in Paris, though I believe theyhave no knowledge of me. As I've said, they are notorious, especiallyWelch, yet they have managed, so far, to avoid any difficulty with theParis police, and, I'm sorry to say, it might be hard to actually proveanything against them. You couldn't _prove_ that anything was crookedlast night, for instance. For that matter, I don't suppose you want to. Mr. Cooley wishes to accept his loss and bear it, and I take it thatthat will be your attitude, too. In regard to the note you gave Sneyd, I hope you will refuse to pay; I don't think that they would dare pressthe matter. "

"Neither do I, " Mr. Cooley agreed. "I left a silver cigarette-case atthe apartment last night, and after talkin' to Cornish a while ago, Isent my man for it with a note to her that'll make 'em all sit up andtake some notice. The gang's all there together, you can be sure. Iasked for Sneyd and Pedlow in the office and found they'd gone out earlythis morning leavin' word they wouldn't be back till midnight. And, seehere; I know I'm easy, but somehow I believe you're even a softer pieceo' meat than I am. I want you to promise me that whatever happens youwon't pay that I O U. "

Mellin moistened his lips in vain. He could not answer. 

"I want you to promise me not to pay it, " repeated Cooley earnestly. 

"I promise, " gasped Mellin. 

"You won't pay it no matter what they do?"

"No. "

This seemed to reassure Mr. Cooley. 

"Well, " he said, "I've got to hustle to get my car shipped and make thetrain. Cornish has finished his job down here and he's goin' with me. Iwant to get out. The whole thing's left a mighty bad taste in my mouth, and I'd go crazy if I didn't get away from it. Why don't you jump intoyour clothes and come along, too?"

"I can't. "

"Well, " said the young man with a sympathetic shake of the head, "youcertainly look sick. It may be better if you stay in bed till evening:a train's a mighty mean place for the day after. But I wouldn't hangaround here too long. If you want money, all you have to do is to askthe hotel to cash a check on your home bank; they're always glad todo that for Americans. " He turned to the door. "Mr. Cornish, if you'regoin' to help me about shipping the car, I'm ready. "

"So am I. Good-by, Mr. Mellin. "

"Good-by, " Mellin said feebly--"and thank you. "

Young Cooley came back to the bedside and shook the other's feverishhand. "Good-by, ole man. I'm awful sorry it's all happened, but I'm gladit didn't cost you quite as much money as it did me. Otherwise I expectit's hit us about equally hard. I wish--I wish I could find a _niceone_"--the youth gulped over something not unlike a sob--"as fascinatin'as her!"

Most people have had dreams of approaching dangers in the path of whichtheir bodies remained inert; when, in spite of the frantic wish to fly, it was impossible to move, while all the time the horror crept closerand closer. This was Mellin's state as he saw the young man going. Itwas absolutely necessary to ask Cooley for help, to beg him for a loan. But he could not. 

He saw Cooley's hand on the doorknob; saw the door swing open. 

"Good-by, again, " Cooley said; "and good luck to you!"

Mellin's will strove desperately with the shame that held him silent. 

The door was closing. 

"Oh, Cooley, " called Mellin hoarsely. 

"Yes. What?"

"J-j-just good-by, " said Mellin. 

And with that young Cooley was gone. 

IX. Expiation

A multitudinous clangor of bells and a dozen neighboring chimes rangnoon; then the rectangular oblongs of hot sunlight that fell from thewindows upon the carpet of Mellin's room began imperceptibly to shifttheir angles and move eastward. From the stone pavement of the streetbelow came the sound of horses pawing and the voices of waiting cabmen;then bells again, and more bells; clamoring the slow and cruel afternooninto the past. But all was silent in Mellin's room, save when, from timeto time, a long, shuddering sigh came from the bed. 

The unhappy young man had again drawn the coverlet over his head, butnot to sleep: it was more like a forlorn and desperate effort to hide, as if he crept into a hole, seeking darkness to cover the shame and fearthat racked his soul. For though his shame had been too great to let himconfess to young Cooley and ask for help, his fear was as great ashis shame; and it increased as the hours passed. In truth his case wasdesperate. Except the people who had stripped him, Cooley was theonly person in all of Europe with whom he had more than a very casualacquaintance. At home, in Cranston, he had no friends susceptibleto such an appeal as it was vitally necessary for him to make. Hisrelatives were not numerous: there were two aunts, the widows of hisfather's brothers, and a number of old-maid cousins; and he had an unclein Iowa, a country minister whom he had not seen for years. But he couldnot cable to any of these for money; nor could he quite conjure hisimagination into picturing any of them sending it if he did. And even tocable he would have to pawn his watch, which was an old-fashioned one ofsilver and might not bring enough to pay the charges. 

He began to be haunted by fragmentary, prophetic visions--confused butrealistic in detail, and horridly probable--of his ejectment from thehotel, perhaps arrest and trial. He wondered what they did in Italy topeople who "beat" hotels; and, remembering what some one had told himof the dreadfulness of Italian jails, convulsive shudderings seized uponhim. 

The ruddy oblongs of sunlight crawled nearer to the east wall of theroom, stretching themselves thinner and thinner, until finally theywere not there at all, and the room was left in deepening grayness. Carriages, one after the other, in unintermittent succession, rumbledup to the hotel-entrance beneath the window, bringing goldfish forthe Pincio and the fountains of Villa Borghese. Wild strains from theHungarian orchestra, rhapsodical twankings of violins, and the runawayarpeggios of a zither crazed with speed-mania, skipped along thecorridors and lightly through Mellin's door. In his mind's eye he sawthe gay crowd in the watery light, the little tables where onlyfive days ago he had sat with the loveliest of all the anemone-likeladies. .. . 

The beautifully-dressed tea-drinkers were there now, under the greenglass dome, prattling and smiling, those people he had called his own. And as the music sounded louder, faster, wilder and wilder with thegipsy madness--then in that darkening bedchamber his soul becamearticulate in a cry of humiliation--

"God in His mercy forgive me, how raw I was!"

A vision came before his closed eyes; the maple-bordered street inCranston, the long, straight, wide street where Mary Kramer lived; asummer twilight; Mary in her white muslin dress on the veranda steps, and a wistaria vine climbing the post beside her, half-embowering her. How cool and sweet and good she looked! How dear--and how _kind_!--shehad always been to him. 

Dusk stole through the windows: the music ceased and the tea-hour wasover. The carriages were departing, bearing the gay people who wentaway laughing, calling last words to one another, and, naturally, quiteunaware that a young man, who, five days before, had adopted them andcalled them "his own, " was lying in a darkened room above them, andcrying like a child upon his pillow. 

X. The Cab at the Corner

A ten o'clock, a page bearing a card upon a silver tray knocked upon thedoor, and stared with wide-eyed astonishment at the disordered gentlemanwho opened it. 

The card was Lady Mount-Rhyswicke's. Underneath the name was written:

If you are there will you give me a few minutes? I am waiting in a cabat the next corner by the fountain. 

Mellin's hand shook as he read. He did not doubt that she came as anemissary; probably they meant to hound him for payment of the notehe had given Sneyd, and at that thought he could have shrieked withhysterical laughter. 

"Do you speak English?" he asked. 

"Spik little. Yes. "

"Who gave you this card?"

"Coachman, " said the boy. "He wait risposta. "

"Tell him to say that I shall be there in five minutes. "

"Fi' minute. Yes. Good-by. "

Mellin was partly dressed--he had risen half an hour earlier andhad been distractedly pacing the floor when the page knocked--and hecompleted his toilet quickly. He passed down the corridors, descended bythe stairway (feeling that to use the elevator would be another abuse ofthe confidence of the hotel company) and slunk across the lobby with thelook and the sensations of a tramp who knows that he will be kicked intothe street if anybody catches sight of him. 

A closed cab stood near the fountain at the next corner. There was atrunk on the box by the driver, and the roof was piled with bags andrugs. He approached uncertainly. 

"Is--is this--is it Lady Mount-Rhyswicke?" he stammered pitifully. 

She opened the door. 

"Yes. Will you get in? We'll just drive round the block if you don'tmind. I'll bring you back here in ten minutes. " And when he hadtremulously complied, "_Avanti, cocchiere_, " she called to the driver, and the tired little cab-horse began to draw them slowly along thedeserted street. 

Lady Mount-Rhyswicke maintained silence for a time, while her companionwaited, his heart pounding with dreadful apprehensions. Finally she gavea short, hard laugh and said:

"I saw your face by the corner light. Been havin' a hard day of it?"

The fear of breaking down kept him from answering. He gulped painfullyonce or twice, and turned his face away from her. Light enough from astreetlamp shone in for her to see. 

"I was rather afraid you'd refuse, " she said seriously. "Really, Iwonder you were willin' to come!"

"I was--I was afraid not to. " He choked out the confession with therecklessness of final despair. 

"So?" she said, with another short laugh. Then she resumed her even, tired monotone: "Your little friend Cooley's note this morning gave usall a rather fair notion as to what you must be thinkin' of us. He seemsto have found a sort of walkin' 'Who's-Who-on-the-Continent' since lastnight. Pity for some people he didn't find it before! I don't think I'msympathetic with your little Cooley. I 'guess, ' as you Yankees say, 'hecan stand it. ' But"--her voice suddenly became louder--"I'm not in thebusiness of robbin' babies and orphans, no, my dear friends, nor ofhelpin' anybody else to rob them either!--Here you are!"

She thrust into his hand a small packet, securely wrapped in paper andfastened with rubber bands. "There's your block of express checks forsix hundred dollars and your I O U to Sneyd with it. Take better care ofit next time. "

He had been tremulous enough, but at that his whole body began to shakeviolently. 

"_What_!" he quavered. 

"I say, take better care of it next time, " she said, dropping again intoher monotone. "I didn't have such an easy time gettin' it back from themas you might think. I've got rather a sore wrist, in fact. "

She paused at an inarticulate sound from him. 

"Oh, that's soon mended, " she laughed drearily. "The truth is, it's beena good thing for me--your turning up. They're gettin' in too deep waterfor me, Helene and her friends, and I've broken with the lot, or they'vebroken with me, whichever it is. We couldn't hang together after thefightin' we've done to-day. I had to do a lot of threatenin' and things. Welch was ugly, so I had to be ugly too. Never mind"--she checked anuncertain effort of his to speak--"I saw what you were like, soon aswe sat down at the table last night--how new you were and all that. Itneeded only a glance to see that Helene had made a mistake about you. She'd got a notion you were a millionaire like the little Cooley, butI knew better from your talk. She's clever, but she's French, and shecan't get it out of her head that you could be an American and not amillionaire. Of course, they _all_ knew better when you brought outyour express checks and talked like somebody in one of the old-timestory-books about 'debts of honor. ' Even Helene understood then thatthe express checks were all you had. " She laughed. "I didn't have anytrouble gettin' the _note_ back!"

She paused again for a moment, then resumed: "There isn't much use ourgoin' over it all, but I want you to know one thing. Your little friendCooley made it rather clear that he accused Helene and me of signalin'. Well, I didn't. Perhaps that's the reason you didn't lose as much as hedid; I can't say. And one thing more: all this isn't goin' to do you anyharm. I'm not very keen about philosophy and religion and that, but Ibelieve if you're let in for a lot of trouble, and it only _half_ killsyou, you can get some good of it. "

"Do you think, " he stammered--"do you think I'm worth saving?"

She smiled faintly and said:

"You've probably got a sweetheart in the States somewhere--a nice girl, a pretty young thing who goes to church and thinks you're a great man, perhaps? Is it so?"

"I am not worthy, " he began, choked suddenly, then finished--"to breathethe same air!"

"That's quite right, " Lady Mount-Rhyswicke assured him. "Think whatyou'd think of her if she'd got herself into the same sort of scrape bydoin' the things you've been doin'! And remember _that_ if you ever feelimpatient with her, or have any temptations to superiority in times tocome. And yet"--for the moment she spoke earnestly--"you go back to yourlittle girl, but don't you tell her a word of this. You couldn'teven tell her that meetin' you has helped me, because she wouldn'tunderstand. "

"Nor do I. I can't. "

"Oh, it's simple. I saw that if I was gettin' down to where I wasrobbin' babies and orphans. .. . " The cab halted. "Here's your corner. Itold him only to go round the block and come back. Good-by. I'm off forAmalfi. It's a good place to rest. "

He got out dazedly, and the driver cracked his whip over the littlehorse; but Mellin lifted a detaining hand. 

"_A spet_, " called Lady Mount-Rhyswicke to the driver. "What is it, Mr. Mellin?"

"I can't--I can't look you in the face, " he stammered, his attitudeperfectly corroborative of his words. "I would--oh, I would kneel in thedust here before you--"

"Some of the poetry you told me you write?"

"I've never written any poetry, " he said, not looking up. "Perhaps Ican--now. What I want to say is--I'm so ashamed of it--I don't know howto get the words out, but I must. I may never see you again, and I must. I 'm sorry--please try to forgive me--I wasn't myself when I did it--"

"Blurt it out; that's the best way. "

"I'm sorry, " he floundered--"I'm sorry I kissed you. "

She laughed her tired laugh and said in her tired voice the last wordshe was ever destined to hear from her:

"Oh, I don't mind, if you don't. It was so innocent, it was what decidedme. "

One of the hundreds of good saints that belong to Rome must haveoverheard her and pitied the young man, for it is ascribable only tosome such special act of mercy that Mellin understood (and he did)exactly what she meant.