'_Cara signora, signorina_, I am desolated! We must part! Is it not sad? I go with Bartolomeo' (Bartolomeo was the count) 'to plant olive orchards on his estate in the Abruzzi. Is it not lonely, that--to spend the summer in an empty castle on the top of a mountain, with only a view for company? And my friends at the baths or the lakes or in Switzerland, or--oh, everywhere except on my mountain-top!'
Marcia laughed at the contessa's despair.
'But why do you go, contessa, if you do not like it?' she inquired.
'But my husband likes it. He has a passion for farming; after roulette, it it his chief amusement. He is very pastoral--Bartolomeo. He adores the mountain and the view and the olive orchards. And in Italy, signorina, the wife has to do as the husband wishes.'
'I'm afraid the wives have to do that the world over, contessa.'
'Ah, no, signorina, you cannot tell me that; I have seen. In America the husband does as the wife wishes. It is a beautiful country, truly. You have many charming customs. Yes, I will give you good advice: you will be wise to marry an American. They do not like mountain-tops. But perhaps you will visit me on my mountain-top?' she asked. 'The view--ah, the beautiful view! It is not so bad.'
'I'm afraid not, contessa. We are leaving for the Tyrol ourselves a week from to-morrow.'
'So soon! Every one is going. Truly, the world comes to an end next week in Rome.'
Marcia found herself growing unexpectedly cordial toward their guest; even the contessa appeared suddenly dear as she was about to be snatched away. She bade her an almost affectionate farewell, and stood by the balustrade waving her handkerchief until the carriage disappeared.
'Will marvels never cease?' she asked her aunt. 'I think--I really think that I like the contessa!'
THE next day--it was just a week before their proposed trip to the Tyrol--Marcia accompanied her uncle into Rome for the sake of one or two important errands which might not be intrusted to a man's uncertain memory. Mr. Copley found himself unready to return to the villa on the train they had planned to take, and, somewhat to Marcia's consternation, he carried her off to the Embassy for tea. She mounted the steps with a fast-beating heart. Would Laurence Sybert be there? She had not so much as seen him since the night of her birthday ball, and the thought of facing him before a crowd, with no chance to explain away that awful moment by the fountain, was more than disconcerting.