My Friend the Chauffeur C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson 26814 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Friend the Chauffeur
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: My Friend the Chauffeur

Author: C. N. Williamson
A. M. Williamson

Illustrator: Frederic Lowenheim

Release date: October 2, 2006 [eBook #19441]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19441

Credits: Produced by Ross Wilburn, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY FRIEND
THE CHAUFFEUR ***

She was only a tall white girl simply dressed

MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR

By C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON
Authors of "Lady Betty Across the Water," "The Princess
Virginia," "The Lightning Conductor," etc., etc.

With Illustrations
By Frederic Lowenheim

A. L. BURT COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK

Copyright, 1905, by

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

Published September, 1905

TO

THE OTHER BEECHY

CONTENTS

PART I—TOLD BY RALPH MORAY

CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Chapter of Surprises 3
II. A Chapter of Plans 17
III. A Chapter of Revenges 28
IV. A Chapter of Humiliations 40
V. A Chapter of Adventures 55
VI. A Chapter of Predicaments 78

PART II—TOLD BY BEECHY KIDDER

VII. A Chapter of Childishness 89
VIII. A Chapter of Playing Dolls 97
IX. A Chapter of Revelations 107
X. A Chapter of Thrills 115
XI. A Chapter of Brakes and Worms 129
XII. A Chapter of Horrors 138
XIII. A Chapter of Wild Beasts 152
XIV. A Chapter of Sunshine and Shadow 163

PART III—TOLD BY THE COUNTESS

XV. A Chapter of Pitfalls 175
XVI. A Chapter of Enchantment Dolls 191

PART IV—TOLD BY MAIDA DESTREY

XVII. A Chapter of Motor Mania 205
XIII. A Chapter According to Shakspere 225
XIX. A Chapter of Palaces and Princes 235
XX. A Chapter of Fairyland 244
XXI. A Chapter of Strange Spells 256
XXII. A Chapter Beyond the Motor Zone 267
XXIII. A Chapter of Kidnapping 283
XXIV. A Chapter of Putting Trust in Princes 292

PART V—TOLD BY TERENCE BARRYMORE

XXV. A Chapter of Chasing 303
XXVI. A Chapter of High Diplomacy 310

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
She was only a tall white girl simply dressed Vignette
As he spoke a douanier lounged out of his little whitewashed lair. 70
Two or three men were moving about the place 158
A great white light pounced upon us like a hawk on a chicken 212

MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR

PART I

TOLD BY RALPH MORAY

I

A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES

"WANTED, LADIES, TO CONDUCT. An amateur automobilist
(English, titled) who drives his own motor-car accommodating five persons,
offers to conduct two or three ladies, Americans preferred, to any
picturesque centres in Europe which they may desire to visit. Car has
capacity for carrying small luggage, and is of best type. Journeys of about
100 miles a day. Novel and delightful way of travelling; owner of car well
up in history, art, and architecture of different countries. Inclusive terms
five guineas a day each, or slight reduction made for extensive trip. Address
—"
When Terry had read aloud thus far, I hastily interrupted him. I wasn't
quite ready yet for him to see that address. The thing needed a little leading
up to; and by way of getting him quickly and safely on to a side rack I burst
into a shout of laughter, so loud and so sudden that he looked up from the
little pink Riviera newspaper of which I was the proud proprietor, to stare at
me.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
I subsided. "The idea struck me so forcibly," said I. "Jolly clever, isn't it?"
"It's a fake, of course," said Terry. "No fellow would be ass enough to
advertise himself like that in earnest. Probably the thing's been put in for a
bet, or else it's a practical joke."
I had been aware that this, or something like it, would come, but now that
the crisis was at hand I felt qualmish. Terry—known to strangers as Lord

Terence Barrymore—is the best and most delightful chap in the world, as
well as one of the best looking, but like several other Irishmen he is, to put
it mildly, rather hard to manage, especially when you want to do him a good
turn. I had been trying to do him one without his knowing it, and in such a
way that he couldn't escape when he did know. But the success of my
scheme was now being dandled on the knees of the gods, and at any instant
it might fall off to break like an egg.
"I believe it's genuine," I began gingerly, almost wishing that I hadn't
purposely put the pink paper where Terry would be sure to pick it up. "And
I don't see why you should call the advertiser in my paper an ass. If you
were hard up, and had a motor-car—"
"I am hard up, and I have a motor-car."
"What I was going to say is this: wouldn't it be much better to turn your
car into the means of making an honest living, and at the same time having
some rattling good fun, rather than sell the thing for less than half cost, and
not only get no fun at all, but not know how to get out of the scrape in
which you've landed yourself?"
It was Terry's turn to laugh now, which he did, though not uproariously,
as I had. "One would think the ass was a friend of yours, by your
enthusiasm in defending him," said he.
"I'm only putting the case to you in the way I thought you'd see it most
clearly," I persisted mildly. "But, as a matter of fact, the 'ass' as you call
him, is my friend, a very intimate friend indeed."
"Didn't know you had any intimate friends but me, anyhow owners of
motor-cars, you old owl," remarked Terry. "I must say in your defence,
though, it isn't like you to have friends who advertise themselves as titled
couriers."
"If you're obliged to start a shop I suppose it's legitimate to put your best
goods in the windows, and arrange them as attractively as you can to appeal
to the public," I argued. "This is the same thing. Besides, my friend isn't
advertising himself. Somebody is 'running him'—doing it for him; wants
him to get on, you know—just as I do you."

Terry gave me a quick glance; but my face (which is blond and said to be
singularly youthful for a man of twenty-nine) was, I flatter myself, as
innocent as that of a choir-boy who has just delivered himself of a high
soprano note. Nevertheless, the end was coming. I felt it in the electric
tingle of the air.
"Do you mind telling me your friend's name, or is he a secret?"
"Perhaps the address at the end of the advertisement will be
enlightening."
Terry had dropped the paper on the grass by the side of his chaise longue,
but now he picked it up again, and began searching for the place which he
had lost. I, in my chaise longue under the same magnolia tree, gazed at him
from under my tilted Panama. Terry is tall and dark. Stretched out in the
basket chair, he looked very big and rather formidable. Beside him, I felt a
small and reedy person. I really hoped he would not give me much trouble.
The day was too hot to cope with troublesome people, especially if you
were fond of them, for then you were the more likely to lose your head.
But the beginning was not encouraging. Terry proceeded to read the end
of the advertisement aloud. "Address X. Y. Z., Châlet des Pins, Cap
Martin." Then he said something which did not go at all with the weather.
Why is it that so many bad words begin with D or H? One almost gets to
think that they are letters for respectable people to avoid.
"Hang it all, Ralph," he went on, after the explosion, "I must say I don't
like your taste in jokes. This is a bit too steep."
I sat up straight, with a leg on each side of the chair, and looked
reproaches. "I thought," I said slowly, "that when your brother behaved like
such a—well, we won't specify what—you asked, I might even say begged,
for my advice, and promised in a midnight conversation under this very tree
to take it, no matter how disagreeable it might prove."
"I did; but—"
"There's no such word as 'but.' Last year I advised you not to put your
money into West Africans. You put it in. What was the consequence? You
regretted it, and as your brother showed no very keen interest in your career,

you decided that you couldn't afford to stop in the Guards, so you cut the
Army. This year I advised you not to play that system of yours and
Raleigh's at Monte Carlo, or if you must have a go at it, to stick to roulette
and five franc stakes. Instead of listening to me, you listened to him. What
were the consequences?"
"For goodness sake don't moralize. I know well enough what they were.
Ruin. And it doesn't gild the pill to remember that I deserved to swallow it."
"If only you'd swallowed the advice instead! It would have slipped down
more easily, poor old boy. But you swore to bolt the next dose without a
groan. I said I'd try and think of a better plan than selling your Panhard, and
going out to help work an African farm on the proceeds. Well, I have
thought of a plan, and there you have the proof of my combined solicitude
and ingenuity, in my own paper."
"Don't shoot off big words at me."
"I'm a journalist; my father before me was a journalist, and got his silly
old baronetcy by being a journalist. I'm one still, and have saved up quite a
little competency on big words and potted phrases. I've collected a great
many practical ideas in my experience. I want to make you a present of
some of them, if only you'll have them."
"Do you call this advertisement a practical idea? You can't for a minute
suppose that I'd be found dead carting a lot of American or other women
whom I don't know about Europe in my car, and taking their beastly
money?"
"If you drove properly, you wouldn't be found dead; and you would know
them," I had begun, when there was a ring at the gate bell, and the high wall
of the garden abruptly opened to admit a tidal wave of chiffon and muslin.
Terry and I were both so taken aback at this unexpected inundation that
for a moment we lay still in our chairs and stared, with our hats tipped over
our eyes and our pipes in our mouths. We were not accustomed to afternoon
calls or any other time-of-day calls from chiffon and muslin at the Châlet
des Pins, therefore our first impression was that the tidal wave had
overflowed through my gate by mistake, and would promptly retire in

disorder at sight of us. But not at all. It swept up the path, in pink, pale
green, and white billows, frothing at the edges with lace.
There was a lot of it—a bewildering lot. It was all train, and big, flowery
hats, and wonderful transparent parasols, which you felt you ought to see
through, and couldn't. Before it was upon us, Terry and I had sprung up in
self-defence, our pipes burning holes in our pockets, our Panamas in our
hands.
Now the inundation divided itself into separate wavelets, the last lagging
behind, crested by a foaming parasol, which hid all details, except a general
white muslin filminess. But Terry and I had not much chance to observe the
third billow. Our attention was caught by the first glittering rush of pink and
emerald spray.
Out of it a voice spoke—an American voice; and then, with a lacy whirl,
a parasol rose like a stage curtain. The green wave was a lady; a marvellous
lady. The pink wave was a child with a brown face, two long brown plaits,
and pink silk legs, also pink shoes.
"We've come in answer to X. Y. Z.'s advertisement in this morning's
Riviera Sun. Now which of you two gentlemen put it in?" began the lady,
with gay coquetry which played over each of us in turn. Oh yes, she was
wonderful. She had hair of the brightest auburn that ever crowned a human
head. It was done in undulations, with a fat ring in the middle of her
forehead, between two beautifully arched black eyebrows. Her skin was
very white, her cheeks were very pink, and her lips were very coralline.
Everything about her was "very." Out of a plump face, with a small nose
that turned up and a chin which was over-round, looked a pair of big, good-
natured, nondescript-coloured eyes, and flashed a pair of pleasant dimples.
At first glance you said "a stout girl of twenty-five." At the second, you
were not sure that the lady wasn't ten years older. But her waist was so
slender that she panted a little in coming up the path, though the path was
by no means steep, and her heels were so high that there was a suspicion of
limp in her walk.
Even to me the lady and her announcement gave a shock, which must
have doubled its effect upon Terry. I was collecting my forces for a reply
when the little brown girl giggled, and I lost myself again. It was only for

an instant, but Terry basely took advantage of that instant in a way of which
I would not have believed him capable.
"You must address yourself to my friend, Sir Ralph Moray," said the
wretched fellow glibly. "His are the car and the title mentioned in the
advertisement of The Riviera Sun, which he owns."
My title indeed! A baronetical crumb flung to my father because of a
service to his political party. It had never done anything for me, except to
add ten per cent to my bills at hotels. Now, before I could speak a word of
contradiction, Terry went on. "I am only Mr. Barrymore," said he, and he
grinned a malicious grin, which said as plainly as words, "Aha, my boy, I
think that rips your little scheme to smithereens, eh?"
But my presence of mind doesn't often fail for long. "It's Mr. Barrymore
who drives my car for me," I explained. "He's cleverer at it than I, and he
comes cheaper than a professional."
The wonderful white and pink and auburn lady had been looking at Terry
with open admiration; but now the light of interest faded from the good-
natured face under the girlish hat. "O-oh," she commented in a tone of
ingenuous disappointment, "you're only the—the chawffur, then." I didn't
want Terry to sink too low in these possible clients' estimation, for my
canny Scotch mind was working round the fact that they were probably
American heiresses, and an heiress of some sort was a necessity for the
younger brother of that meanest of bachelor peers, the Marquis of
Innisfallen. "He's an amateur chauffeur," I hastened to explain. "He only
does it for me because we're friends, you know; but," I added, with a stern
and meaning glance at Terry, "I'm unable to undertake any tours without his
assistance. So if we—er—arrange anything, Mr. Barrymore will be of our
party."
"Unfortunately I have an engagement in South Af—" began Terry, when
the parasol of the third member of the party (the one who had lagged
behind, stopping to examine, or seeming to examine a rose-bush) was laid
back upon her white muslin shoulders.
Somehow Terry forgot to finish his sentence, and I forgot to wonder what
the end was to be.

She was only a tall, white girl, simply dressed; yet suddenly the little
garden of the Châlet des Pins, with its high wall draped with crimson
bougainvilla, became a setting for a picture.
The new vision was built on too grand a scale for me, because I stand
only five foot eight in my boots, while she was five foot seven if she was an
inch, but she might have been made expressly for Terry, and he for her.
There was something of the sweet, youthful dignity of Giovanni Bellini's
Madonnas of the Trees about the girl's bearing and the pose of the white
throat; but the face was almost childlike in the candour and virginal
innocence of its large brown eyes. The pure forehead had a halo of yellow-
brown hair, burnished gold where the sun touched it; the lips were red, with
an adorable droop in the corners, and the skin had that flower-fairness of
youth which makes older women's faces look either sallow or artificial. If
we—Terry and I—had not already divined that the auburn lady got her
complexion out of bottles and boxes, we would have known it with the
lifting of that white girl's parasol.
Can a saintly virgin on a golden panel look sulky? I'm not sure, but this
virgin gave the effect of having been reluctantly torn from such a
background, and she looked distinctly sulky, even angelically cross. She
had not wanted to come into my garden, that was plain; and she lagged
behind the others to gaze at a rose-bush, by way of a protest against the
whole expedition. What she saw to disapprove of in me I was at a loss to
guess, but that she did disapprove was evident. The dazzling brown eyes,
with the afternoon sun glinting between their thick dark fringes, hated me
for something;—was it my existence, or my advertisement? Then they
wandered to Terry, and pitied, rather than spurned. "You poor, handsome,
big fellow," they seemed so say, "so you are that miserable little man's
chauffeur! You must be very unfortunate, or you would have found a better
career. I'm so sorry for you."
"Do sit down, please," I said, lest after all it should occur to Terry to
finish that broken sentence of his. "These chairs will be more comfortable if
I straighten their backs up a little. And this seat round the tree isn't bad. I—
I'll tell my servant to send out tea—we were going to have it soon—and we
can talk things over. It will be pleasanter."

"What a lovely idea!" exclaimed the auburn lady. "Why, of course we
will. Beechy, you take one of those steamer-chairs. I like a high seat myself.
Come, Maida; the gentlemen have asked us to stay to tea, and we're going
to."
Beechy—the little brown girl—subsided with a babyish meekness that
contradicted a wicked laughing imp in her eyes, into one of the chaises
longues which I had brought up from its knees to a sort of "stand and
deliver" attitude. But the tall white girl (the name of "Maida" suited her
singularly well) did not stir an inch. "I think I'll go on if you don't mind,
Aunt Ka—I mean, Kittie," she said in a soft voice that was as American in
its way as the auburn lady's, but a hundred and fifty times sweeter. I rather
fancied that it must have been grown somewhere in the South, where the
sun was warm, and the flowers as luxuriant as our Riviera blossoms.
"You will do nothing of the kind," retorted her relative peremptorily.
"You'll just stay here with Beechy and me, till we've done our business."
"But I haven't anything to do with—"
"You're going with us on the trip, anyhow, if we go. Now, come along
and don't make a fuss."
For a moment "Maida" hesitated, then she did come along, and as
obediently as the brown child, though not so willingly, sat down in the
chaise longue, carefully arranged for her reception by Terry.
"Evidently a poor relation, or she wouldn't submit to being ordered about
like that," I thought. "Of course, any one might see that she's too pretty to
be an heiress. They don't make them like that. Such beauties never have a
penny to bless themselves with. Just Terry's luck if he falls in love with her,
after all I've done for him, too! But if this tour does come off, I must try to
block that game."
"I expect I'd better introduce myself and my little thirteen-year-old
daughter, and my niece," said the auburn lady, putting down her parasol,
and opening a microscopic fan. "I'm Mrs. Kathryn Stanley Kidder, of
Denver, Colorado. My little girl, here—she's all I've got in the world since
Mr. Kidder died—is Beatrice, but we call her Beechy for short. We used to
spell it B-i-c-e, which Mr. Kidder said was Italian; but people would

pronounce it to rhyme with mice, so now we make it just like the tree, and
then there can't be any mistake. Miss Madeleine Destrey is the daughter of
my dead sister, who was ever so much older than I am of course; and the
way she happened to come over with Beechy and me is quite a romance;
but I guess you'll think I've told you enough about ourselves."
"It's like the people in old comic pictures who have kind of balloon
things coming out of their mouths, with a verse thoroughly explaining who
they are, isn't it?" remarked Miss Beechy in a little soft, childish voice, and
at least a dozen imps looking out of her eyes all at once. "Mamma's balloon
never collapses."
To break the awkward silence following upon this frank comparison, I
bustled away with hospitable murmurs concerning tea. But, my back once
turned upon the visitors, the pink, white, and green glamour of their
presence floated away from before my eyes like a radiant mist, and I saw
plain fact instead.
By plain fact I mean to denote Félicité, my French cook-housekeeper, my
all of domesticity in the Châlet des Pins.
Félicité might be considered plain by strangers, and thank heaven she is a
fact, or life at my little villa on the Riviera would be a hundred times less
pleasant than it is; but she is nevertheless as near to being an angel as a fat,
elderly, golden-hearted, sweet-natured, profane-speaking, hot-tempered
peasant woman of Provence can possibly be. Whatever the greatest
geniuses of the kitchen can do, Félicité can and will do, and she has a loyal
affection for her undeserving master, which leads her to attempt miracles
and almost invariably to accomplish them.
There are, however, things which even Félicité cannot do; and it had
suddenly struck me coldly in the sunshine that to produce proper cakes and
rich cream at ten minutes' notice in a creamless and cakeless bachelor villa,
miles from anywhere in particular, might be beyond even her genius.
I found her in the back garden, forcibly separating the family pet, a
somewhat moth-eaten duck, from the yellow cat whose mouse he had just
annexed by violence.

With language which told me that a considerable quantity of pepper had
got into her disposition (as it does with most cooks, according to my theory)
she was admonishing the delinquent, whom she mercilessly threatened to
behead and cook for dinner that evening. "You have been spared too long;
the best place for you is on the table," I heard her lecturing the evil
cannibal, "though the saints know that you are as tough as you are wicked,
and all the sauce in the Alpes Maritimes would not make of you a pleasant
morsel, especially since you have taken to eating the cat's mice."
"Félicité," I broke in upon her flood of eloquence, in my most winning
tones. "Something has happened. Three ladies have come unexpectedly to
tea."
The round body straightened itself and stood erect. "Monsieur well
knows that there is no tea; neither he nor the other milord ever take
anything but coffee and whisk—"
"Never mind," said I hastily. "There must be tea, because I asked the
ladies to have some, and they have said yes. There must also be lettuce
sandwiches, and cakes, and cream—plenty, lots, heaps, for five people."
"As well ask that serpent of wickedness, your duck, to lay you five eggs
in as many minutes."
"He isn't my duck; he's yours. You won him in a raffle and adopted him. I
suspect it's a physical impossibility for him to lay eggs; but look here,
Félicité, dear, kind, good Félicité, don't go back on me. Man and boy I've
known you these eighteen months, and you've never failed me yet. Don't
fail me now. I depend on you, you know, and you must do something—
anything—for the honour of the house."
"Does Monsieur think I can command tea, cakes, and cream from the
tiles of the kitchen floor?"
"No; but I firmly believe you can evolve them out of your inner
consciousness. You wouldn't have me lose faith in you?"
"No," said Félicité, whose eyes suddenly brightened with the rapt look of
one inspired. "No; I would not have Monsieur lose faith. I will do what I
can, as Monsieur says, for the honour of the house. Let him go now to his

friends, and make his mind easy. In a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes
at most, he shall have a feef o'clocky for which he need not blush."
"Angel!" I ejaculated fervently, patting the substantial shoulder, so much
to be depended upon. Then with a buoyant step I hastened round the house
to rejoin the party in the front garden, where, I anxiously realized, the tables
might have been completely turned during my absence.
Ready to hurl myself into the breach, if there were one, I came round the
corner of the villa, to meet the unexpected. I had left Terry with three ladies;
I found him with seven.
Evidently he had gone into the drawing-room and fetched chairs, for they
were all sitting down, but they were not being sociable. Mrs. Kidder's round
chin was in the air, and she wore an "I'm as good as you are, if not better"
expression. The imps in Beechy's eyes were critically cataloguing each
detail of the strangers' costumes, and Miss Destrey was interested in the
yellow cat, who had come to tell her the tragic tale of the stolen mouse.
The new arrivals were English. I can't explain exactly how I knew that,
the moment I clapped eyes on them, but I did; and I felt sure their nearest
male relative must have made money in beer, pickles, or it might have been
corsets or soap. They were that kind; and they had a great many teeth,
especially the daughters, who all three looked exactly thirty, no more and
no less, and were apparently pleasantly conscious of superlative virtue.
I could see the house they lived in, in England. It would be in Surbiton,
of course, with "extensive grounds." There would be a Debrett's "Peerage,"
and a Burke's "Landed Gentry," and a volume of "Etiquette of Smart
Society" on the library shelves, if there was nothing else; and in the basket
on the hall table the visiting cards of any titled beings of the family's
acquaintance would invariably rise to the top like cream.
"I understand from your friend that it is your advertisement which
appears in The Riviera Sun to-day," began the Mother, whose aspect
demanded a capital M. "You are Sir Ralph Moray, I believe?"
I acknowledged my identity, and the lady continued: "I am Mrs. Fox-
Porston. You will have heard of my husband, no doubt, and I daresay we
know a great many of the same People at Home." (This with a dust-brush

glance which swept the Americans out of the field.) "I think it is a very
excellent idea of yours, Sir Ralph, to travel about the Continent on your
motor-car with a few congenial companions, and I have brought my
daughters with me to-day in the hope that we may arrange a delightful little
tour which—"
"Ting-a-ling" at the gate bell robbed us of Mrs. Fox-Porston's remaining
hope, and gave us two more visitors.
Little had I known what the consequences of one small, pink
advertisement would be! Apparently it bade fair to let loose upon us, not the
dogs of war, but the whole floating feminine population of the French
Riviera. Something must be done, and done promptly, to stem the rising tide
of ladies, or the Châlet des Pins and Terry and I with it, would be swamped.
I looked at Terry, he looked at me, as we rose like mechanical figures to
indicate our hosthood to the new arrivals.
They were Americans; I could tell by their chins. They had no
complexions and no particular age; they wore blue tissue veils, and little
jingling bags on their belts, which showed that they were not married,
because if they had been, their husbands would have ordered the little
jingling bags into limbo, wherever that may be.
"Good-afternoon," said the leading Blue Veil. "I am Miss Carrie Hood
Woodall, the lady lawyer from Hoboken, who had such a nice little
paragraph in The Riviera Sun, close to your advertisement; and this is my
chaperone, Mrs. Elizabeth Boat Cully. We're touring Europe, and we want
to take a trip with you in your automobile, if—"
"Unfortunately, ladies," said I, "the services of—er—my car are already
engaged to Mrs. Kidder, of Colorado, and her party. Isn't it so, Barrymore?"
"Yes," replied Terry stoutly. And that "yes" even if inadvertent, was
equivalent I considered, to sign and seal.
Mrs. Kidder beamed like an understudy for The Riviera Sun. Beechy
twinkled demurely, and tossed her plaits over her shoulder. Even Miss
Destrey, the white goddess, deigned to smile, straight at Terry and no other.

At this moment Félicité appeared with a tray. Whipped cream frothed
over the brow of a brown jug like a white wig on the forehead of a judge;
lettuce showed pale green through filmy sandwiches; small round cakes
were piled, crisp and appetizing, on a cracked Sèvres dish; early
strawberries glowed red among their own leaves. Talk of the marengo trick!
It was nothing to this. The miracle had been duly performed; but—there
were only five cups.
Mrs. Fox-Porston and her daughters, Miss Carrie Hood Woodall and her
chaperone, took the hint and their leave; and the companions of the future
were left alone together to talk over their plans.
"Lock the gate, Félicité," said I. "Do make haste!" And she did. Dear
Félicité!

II

A CHAPTER OF PLANS

So it is that Fate calmly arranges our lives in spite of us. Although no
details of the coming trip were settled during what remained of our new
employers' visit, that was their fault and the fault of a singularly premature
sunset, rather than mine, or even Terry's; and we both felt that it came to the
same thing. We were in honour bound to "personally conduct" Mrs. Kidder,
Miss Beechy Kidder, and Miss Destrey towards whatever point of the
compass a guiding finger of theirs should signify.
It has always been my motto to take Father Time by the fore-lock, for
fear he should cut it off, or get away, or play some other trick upon me,
which the cantankerous old chap (no parent of mine!) is fond of doing.
Therefore, if I could, I would have had terms, destination, day and hour of
starting definitely arranged before that miraculously-produced tea of
Félicité's had turned to tannin. But man may not walk through a solid wall,
or strive against such conversational gifts as those of Mrs. Kidder.
She could and would keep to anything except the point. That, whatever
its nature, she avoided as she would an indelicacy.

"Well, now, Mrs. Kidder," I began, "if you really want us to organize this
tour, don't you think we'd better discuss—"
"Of course we want you to!" she broke in. "We all think it's just awfully
good of you to bother with us when you must have so many friends who
want you to take them—English people in your own set. By the way, do
you know the Duchess of Carborough?"
"I know very few duchesses or other Americans," I replied. Whereupon
Miss Kidder's imp laughed, though her mother remained grave, and even
looked mildly disappointed.
"That's a funny way of putting it," said Beechy. "One would think it was
quite an American habit, being a Duchess."
"So it is, isn't it?" I asked. "The only reason we needn't fear its growing
like the Yellow Peril is because there aren't enough dukes. I've always
thought the American nation the most favoured in the world. Aren't all your
girls brought up to expect to be duchesses, and your men presidents?"
"I wasn't," snapped Beechy. "If there was a duke anywhere around,
Mamma would take him, if she had to snatch him out of my mouth. What
are English girls brought up to expect?"
"Hope for, not expect," I corrected her. "Any leavings there are in the
way of marquesses or earls; or if none, a mere bishop or a C. B."
"What's a C. B.?" asked Mrs. Kidder anxiously.
"A Companion of the Bath."
"My goodness! Whose bath?"
"The Bath of Royalty. We say it with a capital B."
"My! How awkward for your King. And what was done about it when
you had only a Queen on the throne?"
"You must inquire of the chamberlains," I replied. "But about that trip of
ours. The—er—my car is in a garage not far away, and it can be ready when
—"

"Oh, I hope it's a red car, with your coat of arms on it. I do so admire red
for an automobile. We could all fix ourselves up in red cloaks and hats to
match, and make ourselves look awfully swell—"
"Everybody'd call us 'The Crimson Ramblers,' or 'The Scarlet Runners,'
or something else horrid," tittered that precocious child Beechy.
"It isn't red, it's grey," Terry managed hastily to interpolate; which settled
one burning question, the first which had been settled or seemed likely to be
settled at our present rate of progress.
"If you are keen on starting—" I essayed again, hope triumphing over
experience.
"Yes, I'm just looking forward to that start," Mrs. Kidder caught me up.
"We shall make a sensation. We're neighbours of yours, you know. We're at
the Cap Martin Hotel. Isn't it perfectly lovely there, with that big garden,
the woods and all? When we were coming to the Riviera, I told the man at
Cook's that we wanted to go to the grandest hotel there was, where we
could feel we were getting our money's worth; and he said all the kings and
princes, and queens and princesses went to the Cap Martin, so—"
"We thought it might be good enough for us," capped Beechy.
"It's as full of royalties, as—as—"
"As a pack of cards," I suggested.
"And some of them have splendid automobiles. I've been envying them;
and only this morning I was saying to my little girl, what a lot of nice things
there are that women and children can't do, travelling alone—automobiling
for one. Then, when I came on that advertisement of yours, I just screamed.
It did seem as if the Hand of Providence must have been pointing it out.
And it was so funny your home being on the Cap, too, within ten minutes'
walk of our hotel. I'm sure it was meant, aren't you?"
"Absolutely certain," I responded, with a glance at Terry, who was not
showing himself off to any advantage in this scene although he ought to
have been the leading actor. He did nothing but raise his eyebrows when he
thought that no one was looking, or tug at his moustache most imprudently

when somebody was. Or else he handed the cakes to Miss Destrey, and
forgot to offer them to her far more important relatives. "I'm so sure of it," I
went on, "that I think we had better arrange—"
"Yes, indeed. Of course your ch—Mr. Barrymore (or did I hear you say
Terrymore?) is a very experienced driver? We've never been in an
automobile yet, any of us, and I'm afraid, though it will be perfectly lovely
as soon as we're used to it, that we may be a little scary at first. So it would
be nice to know for sure that the driver understood how to act in any
emergency. I should hate to be killed in an automobile. It would be such—
such an untidy death to die, judging from what you read in the papers
sometimes."
"I should prefer it, myself," I said, "but that's a matter of taste, and you
may trust Terry—Mr. Barrymore. What he doesn't know about a motor-car
and its inner and outer workings isn't worth knowing. So when we go—"
"Aunt K—I mean Kittie, don't you think we ought to go home to the
hotel?" asked Miss Destrey, who had scarcely spoken until now, except to
answer a question or two of Terry's, whom she apparently chose to consider
in the Martyr's Boat, with herself. "We've been here for hours, and it's
getting dark."
"Why, so it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Kidder, rising hurriedly. "I'm quite
ashamed of myself for staying so long. What will you think of us? But we
had such a lot of things to arrange, hadn't we?"
We had had; and we had them still. But that was a detail.
"We must go," she went on. "Well, we've decided nearly everything" (this
was news to me). "But there are one or two things yet we'll have to talk
over, I suppose."
"Quite so," said I.
"Could you and Mr. Terrymore come and dine with us to-night? Then we
can fix everything up."
"Speaking for myself, I'm afraid I can't, thanks very much," Terry said,
hastily.

"What about you, Sir Ralph? I may call you Sir Ralph, may I not?"
"Please. It's my name."
"Yes, I know it. But it sounds so familiar, from a stranger. I was
wondering if one ought to say 'Sir Ralph Moray,' till one had been
acquainted a little longer. Well, anyway, if you could dine with us, without
your friend—"
I also thanked her and said that matters would arrange themselves more
easily if Barrymore and I were together.
"Then can you both lunch with us to-morrow at one o'clock?"
Quickly, before Terry could find time to object if he meditated doing so, I
accepted with enthusiasm.
Farewells were exchanged, and we had walked to the gate with the ladies
—I heading the procession with Mrs. Kidder, Terry bringing up the rear
with the two girls—when my companion stopped suddenly. "Oh, there's just
one thing I ought to mention before you come to see us at the hotel," she
said, with a little catch of the breath. Evidently she was embarrassed. "I
introduced myself to you as Mrs. Kidder, because I'm used to that name,
and it comes more natural. I keep forgetting always, but—but perhaps you'd
better ask at the hotel for the Countess Dalmar. I guess you're rather
surprised, though you're too polite to say so, my being an American and
having that title."
"Not at all," I assured her. "So many charming Americans marry titled
foreigners, that one is almost more surprised—"
"But I haven't married a foreigner. Didn't I tell you that I'm a widow? No,
the only husband I ever had was Simon P. Kidder. But—but I've bought an
estate, and the title goes with it, so it would seem like a kind of waste of
money not to use it, you see."
"It's the estate that goes with the title, for you, Mamma," said Beechy
(she invariably pronounces her parent "Momma"). "You know you just love
being a Countess. You're happier than I ever was with a new doll that
opened and shut its eyes."

"Don't be silly, Beechy. Little girls should be seen and not heard. As I
was saying, I thought it better to use the title. That was the advice of Prince
Dalmar-Kalm, of whom I've bought this estate in some part of Austria, or I
think, Dalmatia—I'm not quite sure about the exact situation yet, as it's all
so recent. But to get used to bearing the title, it seemed best to begin right
away, so I registered as the Countess Dalmar when we came to the Cap
Martin Hotel a week ago."
"Quite sensible, Countess," I said without looking at Beechy-of-the-
Attendant-Imps. "I know Prince Dalmar-Kalm well by reputation, though
I've never happened to meet him. He's a very familiar figure on the
Riviera." (I might have added, "especially in the Casino at Monte Carlo,"
but I refrained, as I had not yet learned the Countess's opinion of gambling
as an occupation.) "Did you meet him here for the first time?"
"No; I met him in Paris, where we stopped for a while after we crossed,
before we came here. I was so surprised when I saw him at our hotel the
very day after we arrived! It seemed such a coincidence, that our only
acquaintance over on this side should arrive at the same place when we
did."
"When is a coincidence not a coincidence?" pertly inquired Miss Beechy.
"Can you guess that conundrum, Cousin Maida?"
"You naughty girl!" exclaimed her mother.
"Well, you like me to be childish, don't you? And it's childish to be
naughty."
"Come, we'll go home at once," said the Countess, uneasily; and
followed by the tall girl and the little one, she tottered away, sweeping yards
of chiffon.
"I do hope she won't wear things like that when she's in—ahem!—our
motor-car," I remarked sotto voce, as Terry and I stood at the gate,
watching, if not speeding, our parting guests.
"I doubt very much if she'll ever be there," prophesied Terry, looking
handsome and thoroughly Celtic, wrapped in his panoply of gloom.

"Come away in, while I see if I can find you 'The harp that once through
Tara's halls,' to play your own funeral dirge on," said I. "You look as if it
would be the only thing to do you any good."
"It would certainly relieve my feelings," replied Terry, "but I could do
that just as well by punching your head, which would be simpler. Of all the
infernal—"
"Now don't be brutal!" I implored. "You were quite pleasant before the
ladies. Don't be a whited sepulchre the minute their backs are turned. Think
what I've gone through since I was alone with you last, you great hulking
animal."
"Animal yourself!" Terry had the ingratitude to retort. "What have I gone
through, I should like to ask?"
"I don't know what you've gone through, but I know how you behaved," I
returned, as we walked back to the magnolia tree. "Like a sulky barber's
block—I mean a barber's sulky block. No, I—but it doesn't signify. Hullo,
there's the universal provider, carrying off the tray. Félicité, mon ange, say
how you summoned that tea and those cakes and cream from the vasty
deep?"
"What Monsieur is pleased to mean, I know not," my fourteen-stone
angel replied. "I visited with haste a friend of mine at the hotel, and I came
back with the things—that is all. It was an inspiration," and she sailed away,
her head in the air.
Terry and I went into the house, for the sun had left the high-walled
garden, and besides, the talk we were going to have was more suitable to
that practical region, my smoking-room-study-den, than to the romantic
shade of a magnolia tree.
We unpocketed our pipes, and smoked for several minutes before we
spoke. I vowed that Terry should begin; but as he went on puffing until I
had counted sixty-nine slowly, I thought it simpler to unvow the vow before
it had had time to harden.
"A penny for your thoughts, Paddy," was the sum I offered with engaging
lightness. "Which is generous of me, as I know them already. You are

thinking of Her."
Teddy forgot to misunderstand, which was a bad sign.
"If it weren't for Her, I'd have got out of the scrape at any price," said he,
bold as brass. "But I'm sorry for that beautiful creature. She must lead a
beastly life, between a silly, overdressed woman and a pert minx. Poor
child, she's evidently as hard up as I am, or she wouldn't stand it. She's
miserable with them, I could see."
"So you consented to fall into my web, rather than leave her to their
mercy."
"Not exactly that, but—well, I can't explain it. The die's cast, anyhow. I'm
pledged to join the menagerie. But look here, Ralph, do you understand
what you've let me in for?"
"For the society of three charming Americans, two of whom are no doubt
worth their weight in gold."
"It's precisely their weight that's on my mind at this moment. You may
know one or two little things, my dear boy, but among them motoring is
not, otherwise when you were putting that mad advertisement into your
pink rag, you would have stopped to reflect that a twelve-horse power car is
not expected to carry five grown persons up airy mountains and down rushy
glens. Europe isn't perfectly flat, remember."
"Only four of us are grown up. Beechy's an Infant Phenomenon."
"Infant be hanged. She's sixteen if she's a day."
"Her mother ought to know."
"She doesn't want any one else to know. Anyway, I'm big enough to make
up the difference. And besides, my car's not a new one. I paid a thumping
price for her, but that was two years ago. There have been improvements in
the make since."
"Do you mean to tell me that car of yours can't carry five people half
across the world if necessary?"

"She can, but not at an exciting speed; and Americans want excitement.
Not only that, but you saw for yourself that they expect a handsome car of
the latest make, shining with brass and varnish. Amateurs always do. What
will they say when my world-worn old veteran bursts, or rather bumbles,
into view?"
I felt slightly crestfallen, for the first time. When one is an editor, one
doesn't like to think one has been caught napping. "You said you ought to
get two hundred pounds for your Panhard, if you sold it," I reminded him.
"That's a good deal of money. Naturally I thought the motor must be a fairly
decent one, to command that price after several seasons' wear and tear."
Terry fired up instantly, as I had hoped he would; for his car is the
immediate jewel of his soul. "Decent!" he echoed. "I should rather think she
is. But just as there's a limit to your intelligence, so is there a limit to her
power, and I don't want it to come to that. However, the thing's gone too far
for me to draw back. It must depend upon the ladies. If they don't back out
when they see my car, I won't."
"To all intents and purposes it's my car now," said I. "You made her over
to me before witnesses, and I think I shall have her smartened up with a bit
of red paint and a crest."
"If you try on anything like that, you can drive her yourself, for I won't. I
like her old grey dress. I wouldn't feel at home with her in any other. And
she sha'n't be trimmed with crests to make an American holiday. She goes
as she is, or not at all, my boy."
"You are the hardest chap to do anything for I ever saw," I groaned, with
the justifiable annoyance of a martyr who has failed to convert a pagan
hero. "As if you hadn't made things difficult enough already by 'Mistering'
yourself. At any moment you may be found out—though, on second
thoughts, it won't matter a rap if you are. If you're a mere Mister, you are
often obliged to appear before an unsympathetic police magistrate for
pretending to be a Lord. But I never heard of a Lord's falling foul of the law
for pretending to be a Mister."
"If you behave yourself, there isn't much danger of my being found out
by any of the people most concerned, during a few weeks' motoring on the

Continent; but it's to be hoped they won't select England, Scotland, or
Ireland for their tour."
"We can tell them that conditions are less favourable for motoring at
home—which is quite true, judging from the complaints I hear from motor-
men."
"But look here; you let me in for this. What I did was on the spur of the
moment, and in self-defence. I didn't dream then that I should be, first
cornered by you, then led on by circumstances into engaging as chauffeur,
to drive my own car on such a wild-goose chase."
"It's a wild goose that will lay golden eggs. Fifteen guineas a day, my
son; that's the size of the egg which that beneficent bird will drop into your
palm every twenty-four hours. Deduct the ladies' hotel expenses—say three
guineas a day; expenses for yourself and car we'll call two guineas more (of
course I pay my own way), that leaves you as profit ten guineas daily;
seventy guineas a week, or at the rate of three thousand five hundred
guineas per annum. Before you'd spent your little patrimony, and been
refused an—er—fratrimony, you weren't half as well off as that. You might
do worse than pass your whole life as a Personal Conductor on those terms.
And instead of thanking the wise friend who has caught this goose for you,
and is willing to leave his own peaceful duck for your sake, with no
remuneration, you abuse him."
"My dear fellow, I'm not exactly abusing you, for I know you meant well.
But you've swept me off my feet, and I'm not at home yet in mid air."
"You can lie on your back and roll in gold in the intervals of driving the
car. I promise not to give you away. Still, it's a pity you wouldn't consent to
trading a little on your title, which Heaven must have given you for some
good purpose. As it is, you've made my tuppenny-ha'penny baronetcy the
only bait, and that's no catch at all for an American millionairess, fishing for
something big in Aristocracy Pond. Why, when that Prince of hers discovers
what is doing, he will persuade the fair Countess Dalmar that she's paying a
high price for a Nobody—a Nobody-at-All."
"What makes you think he doesn't know already, as he evidently
followed the party here, and must be constantly dangling about?"

"My detective instinct, which two seasons of pink journalism has
developed. Mrs. Kidder saw the advertisement this morning, and was
caught by it. May Sherlock Holmes cut me in the street if Prince Dalmar-
Kalm hasn't been away for the day, doubtless at Monte Carlo where he has
lost most of his own money, and will send the Countess's to find it, if she
gives him the chance."
"I never saw the fellow, or heard of him, so far as I can remember," said
Terry thoughtfully. "What's he like? Middle-aged, stout?"
"He looks thirty, so he is probably forty; for if you look your age, you are
probably ten years past it—though that sounds a bit more Irish than Scotch,
eh? And he's far from being stout. From a woman's point of view, I should
say he might be very attractive. Tall; thin; melancholy; enormous eyes;
moustache waxed; scar on forehead; successful effect of dashing soldier,
but not much under the effect, I should say, except inordinate self-esteem,
and a masterly selfishness which would take what it wanted at almost any
cost to others. There's a portrait of Prince Dalmar-Kalm for you."
"Evidently not the sort of man who ought to be allowed to hang about
young girls."
"Young girls with money. Don't worry about the vestal virgin. He won't
have time in this game to bother with poor relations, no matter how pretty
they may happen to be."
Terry still looked thoughtful. "Well, if we are going in for this queer
business, we'd better get off as soon as possible," said he.
I smiled in my sleeve. "St. George in a stew to get the Princess out of the
dragon's claws," I thought; but I refrained from speaking the thought aloud.
Whatever the motive, the wish was to be encouraged. The sooner the wild
goose laid the first golden egg the better. Fortunately for my private
interests, the season was waning and the coming week would see the setting
of my Riviera Sun until next November. I could therefore get away, leaving
what remained of the work to be done by my "sub"; and I determined that,
Prince or no Prince, luncheon to-morrow should not pass without a business
arrangement being completed between the parties.

III

A CHAPTER OF REVENGES

Mrs. Kidder, alias the Countess Dalmar, either had a fondness for lavish
hospitality or else she considered us exceptionally distinguished guests. Our
feast was not laid in a private dining-room (what is the good of having
distinguished guests if nobody is to know you've got them?); nevertheless,
it was a feast. The small round table, close to one of the huge windows of
the restaurant, was a condensed flower-show. Our plates and glasses (there
were many of the latter) peeped at us from a bower of roses, and bosky
dells of greenery. The Countess and the Infant were dressed as for a royal
garden party, and Terry and I would have felt like moulting sparrows had
not Miss Destrey's plain white cotton kept us in countenance.
Mrs. Kidder had evidently not been comfortably certain whether we
ought not to march into the restaurant arm in arm, but the penniless goddess
(who had perhaps been brought to Europe as a subtle combination of
etiquette-mistress and ladies'-maid) cut the Gordian knot with a quick
glance, to our intense relief; and we filed in anyhow, places being indicated
to Terry and me on either hand of our hostess.
A painted satin menu, with a list of dishes as long as Terry's tailor's bills,
lay beside each plate. We were to be provided with all the luxuries which
were not in season; those which were would have been far too common for
an American millionairess, such as I began to be more and more convinced
that our hostess was. It was the kind of luncheon which calls for rare and
varied wines, just as certain poetical recitations call for a musical
accompaniment; therefore the Countess's first words on sitting down at the
table came as a shock.
"Now, Sir Ralph," said she, "you must just order any kind of wine you
and Mr. Ter—Barrymore like. Mr. Kidder never would have alcohol in the
house, except for sickness, and we three drink only water, so I don't know
anything about it; but I want that you gentlemen should suit your own taste.
Do make the waiter bring you something real nice."

My sparkling visions of Steinberger Cabinet, Cos d'Estournel, or an
"Extra Sec" of '92, burst like a rainbow bubble. Here was one of life's little
tragedies.
Neither Terry nor I are addicted to looking too lovingly on wine when it
is red, or even pale golden; still, at this moment I had a sharp pang of
sympathy for Tantalus. To be sure, that hint as to "something real nice"
grudged no expense; but I must have been blest with more cool,
unadulterated "cheek" than two seasons of journalism had given me, to
order anything appropriate while our hostess drowned her generous
impulses in iced water.
With a wooden expression of countenance, I asked Terry what he would
have.
"Water, thanks," he replied airily, and if, instead of gazing at the ceiling
with elaborate interest, he had allowed his eye to meet mine at that instant,
a giggle might have burst over that luncheon-table, out of a clear sky.
Perforce, I felt obliged to follow his lead, for only a guzzling brute could
have bibbed alone, surrounded by four teetotallers; but, deprived of even an
innocent glass of Riviera beer, my soul thirsted for a revenge which could
not be quenched with iced water; and I took it without waiting for
repentance to set in.
"You see, Barrymore is a chauffeur," I carefully explained "and it's en
regle for him, even though an amateur, to drink nothing stronger than cold
water. You will notice during our trip, Countess, how conscientious he is in
sticking to this pledge."
I felt that Terry's eye launched a dagger; but it was now my turn to be
interested in the ceiling.
"Oh, how good of him!" exclaimed our hostess. "I do admire that in you,
Mr. Tarrymore." (I couldn't help wondering incidentally whether the
Countess would have had such frequent lapses of memory regarding Terry's
name, if she knew that he was the brother of a marquis; but it may be that I
wronged her.) "We shall feel as safe as if we were in a house when you are
driving, now we know what kind of a man you are, shan't we, girls?"

Poor Terry, irrevocably pledged to blue ribbonism for the term of his
natural chauffeurdom! I could have found it in my heart to pity him, had not
the iced water come jingling ironically round at that moment. Let it then be
upon his own head, with ice or without.
And this came of lunching with the widow of a Simon Pure Kidder! for I
had no longer the slightest doubt as to the middle name of the deceased.
With a brain almost cruelly clear and cold, I entered the lists with the lady's
conversational gifts, and after a spirited but brief tourney, conquered with
flying colours. My aim was to pin her down to something definite ... like an
impaled butterfly: hers was to flutter over a vast garden of irrelevances; but
she did not long evade the spike. I tipped its point with the subtly poisonous
suggestion that all arrangements must be made in the hour, otherwise
complications might arise. There seemed to be so many people who had
been attracted by that simple little advertisement of mine, and really, I must
be able to say that I and my car were engaged for such and such a date—
preferably a near one—or I should have difficulty in evading requests for an
intermediate trip with others.
The butterfly wriggled no more. Indeed, it hastened to assure the
executioner that it was only too anxious to be comfortably pinned into
place.
"When could you go, Sir Ralph?" the Countess asked.
"Day after to-morrow," I answered boldly. "Could you?"
She looked rather taken aback.
"We—er—haven't motor things yet," she demurred.
"You can get 'every requisite' (isn't that the word?) in the Nice or Monte
Carlo shops, if that's your only reason for delay."
Still the lady hesitated.
"Mamma's new crown isn't painted on all her baggage yet," said Beechy,
living up, with a wicked delight, to her rôle of enfante terrible. "It's being
done, but it wasn't promised till the end of the week. Say, Sir Ralph, don't
you think she's mean not to give me even so much as half a crown?"

What I really thought was, that she deserved a slap; but Terry spared the
Countess a blush and me the brain fag of a repartee conciliatory alike to
parent and child.
"I think we ought to warn you," he said, "that the car hasn't precisely the
carrying capacity of a luggage van. Perhaps when you find that there's no
room for Paris frocks and hats, you'll repent your bargain."
"Can't we take a small trunk and a satchel apiece?" asked the Countess. "I
don't see how we could do with less."
"I'm afraid you'll have to, if you go in—er—my friend's car," Terry went
on ruthlessly. "A small box between the three of you, and a good-sized
dressing-bag each, is all that the car can possibly manage, though, of course
Moray and I will reduce our luggage to the minimum amount."
Mrs. Kidder looked grave, and at this instant, just as I felt that Terry's
future was wavering in the balance, outweighed probably by a bonnet-box,
there was a slight stir in the restaurant, behind our backs. Involuntarily I
turned my head, and saw Prince Dalmar-Kalm hurrying towards us, his very
moustache a thunder-cloud. He could not have appeared at a less convenient
time for us.
I was sure that he had not been consulted in regard to the automobile trip;
that perhaps even now he was in ignorance of the plan; and that, when he
came to hear of it as he must within the next five minutes, he would
certainly try (as Beechy would have put it) to snatch the American ladies
out of our mouths. It was like Terry's luck, I said to myself, that this evil
genius should arrive at the moment when Mrs. Kidder had been mercilessly
deprived of her wardrobe by a mere chauffeur. Terry had stupidly given her
an opening if she chose to take it, by suggesting that she might "repent her
bargain," and I was sure it wouldn't be Dalmar-Kalm's fault if she didn't
take it.
A second later he had reached our table, was bending low over Mrs.
Kidder's hand, smiling with engaging wickedness at Beechy, and sending a
dark look of melancholy yearning to catch Miss Destrey's sympathies.
"Why, Prince," the Countess exclaimed in a loud tone, calculated to reach
the ears of any neighbouring royalties, and let them see that she was as

good as they were. "Why, Prince, if you're not always surprising people! I
thought you were staying another day with the Duke of Messina, in Monte
Carlo."
"Told you so!" my eyebrows—such as they are—telegraphed to Terry.
"He has been away; only just back; pantomime demon act."
"I found myself homesick for Cap Martin," returned the Prince, with an
emphasis and a sweeping glance which made a present of the compliment
to the woman, the girl, and the child.
"Humph," I sneered into the iced water; "lost all he'd got with him, and
the money-lenders turned crusty; that's when the homesickness came on."
"Well, now you're here, do sit down and have lunch with us," said Mrs.
Kidder, "unless"—archly—"your homesickness has destroyed your
appetite."
"If it had, the pleasure of seeing you again would restore it;" and once
more the Austrian's gaze assured each one of the three that she alone was
the "you" referred to.
A nod and a gesture whisked a couple of attentive waiters to the table,
and in the twinkling of an eye—even an American eye—a place was laid
for the Prince, with duplicates of all our abortive wine glasses.
"Aha, my fine fellow, you are no friend of cold water," I said to myself in
savage glee, as I acknowledged with a bow Mrs. Kidder's elaborate
introduction. "You will suffer even more than we have suffered." But I
reckoned without a full knowledge of the princely character.
History repeated itself with an invitation to the new guest to choose what
he liked from the wine card. I looked for a courteous refusal, accompanied
by some such gallant speech as, that he would drink to the ladies only with
his eyes; but nothing of the kind happened. He searched the list for a
moment with the absorption of a connoisseur, then unblushingly ordered a
bottle of Romanée Conti, which wine, he carelessly announced, he
preferred to champagne, as being "less obvious." The price, however, would
be pretty obvious on Mrs. Kidder's bill, I reflected; seventy francs a bottle,
if it were a penny. But did this coming event cast a shadow on the Prince's

contentment? On the contrary, it probably spangled its fabric with sequins.
He sniffed the wine as if it had been an American Beauty rose, and quaffed
it ecstatically, while Terry and I gulped down our iced water and our
indignation.
"You are just in time, Prince," said Mrs. Kidder, "to advise us about our
journey. Oh, I forgot, you don't know anything about it yet. But we are
going a tour in Sir Ralph Moray's automobile. Won't it be fun?"
"Indeed?" the Prince ejaculated hastily; and I had the satisfaction of
knowing that one swallow of the Romanée Conti was spoiled for him. "No;
I had not heard. I did not know that Sir Ralph Moray was one of your
friends. Has not this been suddenly arranged?"
"It was only decided yesterday," replied the Countess; and it was revealed
to me that the plump lady was not without feminine guile.
"What is your car?" inquired the Prince, turning abruptly to me.
"A Panhard," I answered, with a gaze as mild as milk. I knew that my
answer would disappoint him, as he could pick no flaws in the make of the
machine.
"What horse-power?" he continued his catechism.
"Something under twenty," I conservatively replied.
"Twelve," corrected Terry, with a brutal bluntness unworthy of a Celt. He
can be very irritating sometimes; but at this moment he was looking so
extremely handsome and devil-may-care, that my desire to punch his head
dissolved as I glared at him. Could any woman in her senses throw over
even a titleless Terry and twelve horses worth of motor for a hat box or two
and an Austrian Prince?
"A twelve-horse-power car, and you propose to take with you on tour
three ladies, their maid, and all their luggage?" demanded Dalmar-Kalm in
his too excellent English. "But it is not possible."
I felt suddenly as if Terry and I were little snub-nosed boys, trafficking
with a go-cart.

"They won't need their maid, Prince," said Miss Destrey. "I know how to
do Aunt Kathryn's hair; and the dear Sisters have taught me how to mend
beautifully."
This was the first time she had opened her lips during luncheon, except to
eat with an almost nun-like abstemiousness; and now she broke silence to
rescue a scheme which yesterday had excited her active disapproval. The
girl, always interesting because of her unusual type of beauty, gained a new
value in my eyes. She excited my curiosity, although her words were a
practical revelation of her place in the trio. Why did she break a lance in our
defence? and had she been torn from a convent to serve her rich relatives,
that she should mention the "Sisters" in that familiar and tender tone? Had
her beautiful white sails veered with a new wind, and did she want to go
with us, after all? Did she wish to tell the Prince in a sentence, how poor
she really was? These were a few of the hundred and one questions which
the Fair Maid of Destrey's charming and somewhat baffling personality set
going in my mind by a word or two.
I thought that the Prince's face fell, but Mrs. Kidder's contribution to the
defence distracted my attention.
"We don't expect to take all our luggage," she said. "I suppose some
things could be sent by rail from place to place to meet us, couldn't they?"
"Of course," I assured her, before Dalmar-Kalm could enlarge upon the
uncertainties of such an arrangement. "That's what is always done. And
your maid could travel by rail too."
"She is a Parisienne," exclaimed Mrs. Kidder, "and she's always saying
she wouldn't leave France for twice the wages I pay."
"Try her with three times," suggested Beechy. But Miss Destrey was
speaking again. "As I said, it doesn't matter about Agnes. Aunt Kathryn and
Beechy shan't miss her; and she never does anything for me."
"What a pity," complained the Prince, "that my automobile is at the
moment laid up for repairs. Otherwise I should have been only too
delighted to take you three ladies to the world's end, if you had the wish. It
is not 'something less than twenty,' as Sir Ralph Moray describes his
twelve-horse-power car, but is something more than twenty, with a

magnificently roomy Roi de Belge tonneau and accommodation for any
amount of luggage on the roof. By the way, yours has at least a cover, I
make no doubt, Sir Ralph?"
"No," I was obliged to admit, my mouth somewhat dry—owing perhaps
to the iced water.
"No cover? How, then, do you propose to protect these ladies from the
rain?" This with virtuous indignation flashing from his fierce eyes, and a
gesture which defended three helpless feminine things from the
unscrupulous machinations of a pair of villains.
My ignorance of motor lore bereft me of a weapon with which to parry
the attack, but Terry whipped out his sword at last.
"The ladies will be protected by their motor coats and our rugs. I'm sure
they're too plucky to sacrifice the best pleasures of motoring to a little
personal comfort when it may happen to rain," said he. "A roof gives no
protection against rain except with curtains, and even when without them it
curtails the view."
"Ah, it is cruel that I cannot get my car for you from Paris," sighed the
Prince. "Perhaps, Countess, if you would wait a little time—a week or ten
days, I might—"
"But we're going day after to-morrow, aren't we, Kittie?" quickly broke in
Miss Destrey.
"I suppose so," replied Mrs. Kidder, who invariably frowned when
addressed as "Cousin Kathryn," and brightened faintly if spontaneously
Kittied. "We've been here more than a week, and seen all the Nice and
Monte Carlo sights, thanks to the Prince. There's nothing to keep us,
although it will be about all we can do to get off so soon."
"Why be hurried, Countess?" with a shrug of the shoulder half-turned
from me.
"Well, I don't know." Her eyes wandered to mine. "But it suits Sir Ralph
to leave then. I guess we can manage it."

"Where will you go?" inquired Dalmar-Kalm. "I might be able to join
you somewhere en route."
"Well, that's one of the things we haven't quite settled yet," replied Mrs.
Kidder. "Almost anywhere will suit me. We can just potter around. It's the
automobiling we want. You know, this is our first time in Europe, and so
long as we're in pretty places, it's much the same to us."
"Speak for yourself, Mamma," said Beechy. "Maida and I want to see the
Lake of Como, where Claude Melnotte had his palace."
"Oh, my, yes! In 'the Lady of Lyons.' I do think that's a perfectly sweet
play. Could we go there, Sir Ralph?"
"I must consult my chauffeur," said I, cautiously. "He knows more about
geography than I do. He ought to; he spends enough money on road-maps
to keep a wife. Eh, Terry?"
"There are two ways of driving to the lakes from here," he said, with a
confidence which pleased me. "One can go coasting along the Italian
Riviera to Genoa, and so direct to Milan; or one can go through the Roya
Valley, either by Turin, or a short cut which brings one eventually to
Milan."
"Milan!" exclaimed Miss Destrey, with a rapt look. "Why, that's not very
far from Verona, is it? And if it's not far from Verona, it can't be so far from
Venice. Oh, Beechy, think of seeing Venice!"
"It would be easy to go there," Terry said, showing too much eagerness to
fall in with a whim of the poor relation's; at least such was my opinion until,
with a glint of mischief in his eyes, he added, "If we went to Venice,
Countess, it would be very easy to run on if you liked, into Dalmatia and
see the new estate which you told us you thought of buying, before you
actually made up your mind to have it."
It was all I could do to strangle a chuckle at birth. Good old Terry! Even
he was not above taking a neat revenge; and the Prince's face showed how
neat it was. Could it be possible that the estate in Dalmatia which carried
with it a title, had any resemblance to Claude Melnotte's in that "sweet"
play, "The Lady of Lyons?" I could scarcely believe that, much as I would

have liked to; but it was clear he would have preferred to have the
American millionairess take the beauties of her new possessions for
granted.
"Oh, I have made up my mind already. I made it up before we arrived
here," said the Countess.
"She made it up in the train coming from Paris," corrected Beechy,
"because she had to decide what name to register, and whether she'd have
the crown put on her handkerchiefs and her baggage. But she had to cable
to our lawyer in Denver before she could get money enough to pay what the
Prince wanted in advance, and the answer only came back this morning."
"And what does the lawyer say?" asked the Prince, flushing, and with a
strained playfulness contradicted by the eager light in his eyes.
"Just guess," said Beechy, all her imps in high glee.
"Lawyers are such dry-as-dust persons," remarked His Highness, hastily
lifting his glass to toss off the last of the Romanée Conti. "If he is a wise
man who studies his client's interests, he could not advise Madame against
taking a step by which she ascends to a height so advantageous, but—"
"Oh, he said yes," cried Mrs. Kidder, clinging to her Countesshood.
"And he put after it, 'If you will be a fool,'" added Beechy. "But he'll have
to pay for that part of the cable himself."
"He is my late husband's cousin," explained Mrs. Kidder, "and he takes
liberties sometimes, as he thinks Simon would not have approved of
everything I do. But you needn't tell everything, Beechy."
"Let's talk about Venice," said Miss Destrey with a lovely smile, which
seemed all the more admirable as she had given us so few. "I have always
longed to see Venice."
"But you didn't want to come abroad, you can't say you did," remarked
Beechy the irrepressible, resenting her cousin's interference, as a naughty
boy resents being torn from the cat to whose tail he has been tying a tin can.
"And I know why you didn't!" She too had a taste for revenge!

Miss Destrey blushed—I wondered why; and so, no doubt, did Terry
wonder. (Had she by chance been sent abroad to forget an unfortunate
attachment?)
"You wanted to stay with the Sisters," Beechy took advantage of the
other's embarrassed silence to go on. "And you hardly enjoyed Paris at all,
although everybody turned to look after you in the streets."
"Well, now that I have come, I should enjoy seeing the places I've cared
most to read about in history or poetry," said Miss Destrey quickly, "and
Venice is one of them."
"Maida has lived more in books than she has in real life," remarked Miss
Beechy with scorn. "I know a lot more about the world than she does,
although I am only—only—"
"Thirteen," finished the Countess. "Beechy darling, would you like to
have some more of those marrons glacés? They aren't good for you, but just
this once you may, if you want to. And oh, Sir Ralph, I should love to see
my new estate. It's a very old estate really, you know, though new to me; so
old that the castle is almost a ruin; but if I saw it and took a great fancy to
the place, I might have it restored and made perfectly elegant, to live in
sometimes, mightn't I? Just where is Schloss (she pronounced it 'Slosh')
what-you-may-call-it? I never can say it properly?"
"Schloss Hrvoya is very far down in Dalmatia—almost as far east as
Montenegro," replied the Prince. "The roads are extremely bad, too. I do not
think they would be feasible for an automobile, especially for Sir Ralph
Moray's little twelve-horse-power car carrying five persons."
"I differ from you there, Prince." Terry argued, looking obstinate. "I have
never driven in Dalmatia, although I've been to Fiume and Abbazzia; but I
have a friend who went with his car, and he had no adventures which ladies
would not have enjoyed. Our principal difficulty would be about petrol; but
we could carry a lot, and have supplies sent to us along the route. I'll engage
to manage that—and the car."
"Then it's settled that we go," exclaimed Mrs. Kidder, clapping two
dimpled hands covered with rings. "What a wonderful trip it will be."

I could see that the Prince would have liked to call Terry out, but he was
too wise to dispute the question further; and a dawning plan of some kind
was slowly lightening his clouded eye.
My wish was granted at last; something was settled. And later, strolling
on the terrace, I contrived to put all that was left upon a business basis.
Never had man a better friend than Terence Barrymore has in me; and my
whole attention on the way home was given to making him acknowledge it.

IV

A CHAPTER OF HUMILIATIONS

After all, we did not start on the day after to-morrow. Our luncheon had
been on Tuesday. On Wednesday a note came, sent by hand from Mrs.
Kidder, to say that she could not possibly be ready until Friday, and that as
Friday was an unlucky day to begin any enterprise, we had better put off
starting until Saturday. But I must not "think her changeable, as she really
had a very good reason"; and she was mine "Cordially, Kathryn Stanley
Kidder-Dalmar."
Having first stated that she could not be ready, and then added her reason
was good, I naturally imagined there was more in the delay than met the
eye. My fancy showed me the hand of Prince Dalmar-Kalm, and I firmly
believed that each finger of that hand to say nothing of the thumb, was
busily working against us.
All Thursday and Friday I expected at any moment to receive an
intimation that, owing to unforseen circumstances (which might not be
explained) the Countess and her party were unable to carry out the
arrangement they had entered into with us. But Thursday passed, and
nothing happened. Friday wore on towards evening, and the constant strain
upon my nerves had made me irritable. Terry, who was calmly getting ready
for the start as if there were no cause for uncertainty, chaffed me on my
state of mind, and I rounded upon him viciously, for was not all my
scheming for his sake?

I was in the act of pointing out several of his most prominent defects, and
shedding cigarette ashes into his suit-case as he packed, when Félicité
appeared with a letter.
"It's from her!" I gasped. "And—she's got her coronet. It's on the
envelope, as large as life."
"Which means that she's ready," said the future chauffeur, examining a
suit of overalls.
"Don't be so cocksure," said I, opening the letter. "Hum—ha—well, yes,
it does seem to be all right, if you can ever judge a woman's intentions by
what she says. She wants to know whether the arrangement stands, that
we're to call for them at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and whether we're
to go rain or shine. I'll scratch off a line in answer, and say yes—yes—yes,
to everything."
I did so with a trembling hand, and then gave myself up to the weakness
of reaction. Upon Félicité fell the task of doing my packing, which
consisted in cramming a suit of flannels, my evening things, and all the
linen it would hold without bursting asunder, into a large, fitted suit-case.
Terry had a suit-case too, five times better than mine (Irishmen in debt
always do have things superior to those of every one else); we had motor-
coats, and enough guide-books and road-maps to stock a small library; and
when these were collected we were ready for the Great Adventure.
When Terry visits me at the Châlet des Pins, he keeps his car at a garage
in Mentone. His habit has been to put up his chauffeur close by this garage,
and telephone when he wants to use the car; but the chauffeur was paid off
and sent away ten days ago, at about the time when Terry decided that the
automobile must be sold. He had not been in spirits for a drive since, until
the fateful day of the advertisement, but immediately after our luncheon
with the Countess he had walked down to the garage and stayed until
dinner-time. What he had been doing there he did not deign to state; but I
had a dim idea that when you went to call on a motor-car in its den, you
spent hours on your back bolting nuts, or accelerating silencers, or putting
the crank head (and incidentally your own) into an oil bath; and I supposed
that Terry had been doing these things. When he returned on Wednesday,
Thursday, and Friday, spending several hours on each occasion, I went on

supposing the same; but when at nine o'clock on Saturday morning he drove
up to the garden gate after another trip to Mentone, I had a surprise.
Terry had almost bitten off my head when I had innocently proposed to
have his car smartened up to suit the taste of the Countess; but, without
saying a word to me, he had been at work improving its appearance.
"She" (as he invariably calls his beloved vehicle) was dressed in grey as
before, but it was fresh, glossy grey, still smelling of turpentine. The tyres
were new, and white, and a pair of spare ones were tied onto the motor's
bonnet, which looked quite jaunty now in its clean lead-coloured paint.
The shabby cushions of the driver's seat and tonneau had been re-covered
also with grey, and wherever a bit of brass was visible it glittered like pure
gold.
At the sound of the Panhard's sob at the gate, Félicité and I hurried down
the path, armed with the two coats and suit-cases, there to be surprised by
the rejuvenated car, and dumbfounded by a transformed Terry.
"Mon Dieu, comme il est beau, comme ça," cried my domestic miracle
worker, lost in admiration of a tall, slim, yet athletic figure, clad from head
to foot in black leather. "Mais—mais ce n'est pas comme il faut pour un
Milord."
"Why, Terry," exclaimed I, "I never thought—I never expected—I'm
hanged if you're not a real professional. It's awfully smart, and very
becoming—never saw you look better in your life. But it's—er—a kind of
masquerade, you know. I'm not sure you ought to do it. If Innisfallen saw
you like that, he'd cross you out of his will."
"He's dead certain to have done that already. When I engaged as your
chauffeur I engaged as your chauffeur and I intend to look the part as well
as act it. I want this car to be as smart as it can, which unfortunately isn't
saying much, and towards that end I've been doing my best these last three
or four days. She isn't bad, is she?"
"From being positively plain, if not ugly, she has become almost a
beauty," I replied. But I thought you were determined to preserve her from
the sin of vanity? Why this change of mind?"

"Well, I couldn't stand Dalmar-Kalm running her down," Terry confessed
rather sheepishly. "There was so little time, that half the work on her I've
done myself."
"That accounts, then, for your long and mysterious absences."
"Only partly. I've been working like a navvy, at a mechanic's shop,
fagging up a lot of things I knew how to do on principle, but had seldom or
never done with my own hands. I was always a lazy beggar, I'm afraid, and
it was better fun to smoke and watch my man Collet making or fitting in a
new part than to bother with it myself. This will be my first long trip 'on my
own,' you see, and I don't want to be a duffer, especially as I myself
proposed going down into Dalmatia, where we may get into no end of
scrapes."
"By Jove!" I exclaimed, gazing with a new respect at my leather-clad
friend and his car. "You've got some good stuff in you, Terry. I didn't quite
realize what a responsibility I was throwing on you, old chap, when I
named you as my chauffeur. Except for my drives with you, I suppose I
haven't been in a motor half a dozen times in my life, now I come to think
of it and it always seemed to me that, if a man knew how to drive his own
car, he must know how to do everything else that was necessary."
"Very few do, even expert drivers, among amateurs. A man ought to be
able not only to take his car entirely to pieces and put it together again, but
to go into a mechanic's shop and make a new one. I don't say that I can do
that, but I can come a bit nearer to it than I could five days ago. I don't think
that the poor old car will be such a shock to the ladies now, even after some
of the fine ones they must have seen, do you?"
He was so ingenuously proud of his achievements, had toiled so hard,
and sacrificed so much of his personal vanity in providing his employers
with a suitable chauffeur, that I did not stint my commendation of him and
his car. Félicité, too, was prolific in compliments. The duck, who had
waddled out to the gate to see what was doing, quacked flattery; the yellow
cat mewed praise; and Terry, pleased as Punch with everything and
everybody, whistled as he stowed away our suit-cases.

The moment of departure had come. With some emotion I bade farewell
to my family, which I should not see again until I returned to the Riviera to
open the autumn season with the first number of the Sun. Then one last look
at the little place which had become dear to me, and we were off with a
bound for the Cap Martin Hotel.
Terry, when in a frank and modest mood, had sometimes said to me that,
with all the virtues of strength, faithfulness, and getting-thereness, his car
was not to be called a fast car. Thirty miles an hour was its speed at best,
and this pace it seemed had been far surpassed by newer cars of the same
make, though of no higher power, since Terry's had been built. This fact I
took for granted, as I had heard it from Terry's own lips more than once; but
as we flew over the wooded road which divided the Châlet des Pins from
the Cap Martin Hotel, I would have sworn that we were going at the rate of
sixty miles per hour.
"Good Heavens!" I gasped. "Have you been doing anything to this car, to
make her faster than she was? Help! I can't breathe."
"Nonsense," said Terry, with soothing calm. "It's only because you
haven't motored for a long time that you imagine we're going fast. The
motor's working well, that's all. We're crawling along at a miserable twenty
miles an hour."
"Well, I'm glad that worms and other reptiles can't crawl at this pace,
anyhow, or life wouldn't be worth living for the rest of creation," I retorted,
cramming on my cap and wishing I had covered my tearful eyes with the
motor-goggles which lay in my pocket. "If our millionairesses don't respect
this pace, I'll eat my hat when I have time, or—"
But Terry was not destined to hear the end of that boast—which perhaps
was just as well for me in the end, as things were to turn out. We spun down
the avenue of pines, and in less than a lazy man's breathing space were at
the door of the Cap Martin Hotel.
Quite a crowd of smart-looking people was assembled there, and for one
fond second I dreamed that they were waiting to witness our arrival. But
that pleasant delusion died almost as soon as born. As the group divided at
our approach we saw that they had been collected round a large motor-car

—a motor-car so resplendent that beside it our poor rejuvenated thing
looked like a little, made-up, old Quaker lady.
In colour this hated rival was a rich, ripe scarlet, with cushions to match
in her luxurious tonneau. Her bonnet was like a helmet of gold for the
goddess Minerva, and wherever there was space, or chance, for something
to sparkle with jewelled effect, that something availed itself, with brilliance,
of the opportunity.
The long scarlet body of the creature was shaded with a canopy of
canvas, white as the breast of a gull, and finished daintily all round with a
curly fringe. The poles which held it were apparently of glittering gold, and
the railing designed to hold luggage on the top, if not of the same precious
metal, was as polished as the letters of Lord Chesterfield to his long-
suffering son.
One jealous glance was enough to paint this glowing picture upon our
retinas, and there it remained, like a sun-spot, even when a later one was
stamped upon it. Three figures in long, grey motor-coats, exactly alike, and
motor-caps, held on with shirred chiffon veils came forward, two advancing
more quickly than the third.
"How do you do, Sir Ralph? Good morning, Mr. Barrymore," Mrs.
Kidder and Beechy were saying. "We're all ready," went on the former,
excitedly. "We've been admiring the Prince's car, which came last night.
Isn't it a perfect beauty? Just look at the sweet poppy-colour, and his crest in
black and gold. I never saw anything so pretty, did you?"
"I like Sir Ralph's car," said Miss Destrey. "It's such a cool grey, and even
in wind or dust it will always look neat. We shall match it very well with
our grey coats and veils."
I could have kissed her; while as for Terry, standing cap in hand, he
looked grateful enough to have grovelled at our fair champion's feet.
Nevertheless, we could not help knowing in our hearts that no normal girl
could help preferring that celestial peacock to our grey hen, and that Miss
Destrey's wish to be kind must have outstripped her obligation to be
truthful. This knowledge was turning a screw round in our vitals, when His
Highness himself appeared to give it a still sharper twist.

He had been standing at a short distance, talking with a small chauffeur
of a peculiarly solemn cast of countenance. Now he turned and joined the
ladies with a brisk step and an air of proprietorship.
The fact that he was wearing a long motor-coat, of a smart cut, and a
peaked cap which became him excellently, struck me as ominous. Had he
caught the birds—our birds—after all, at the last moment, and had they
been too cowardly to let us know?
"Oh, good morning, Sir Ralph," said he. "So that is the famous car. Mine
is a giant beside it, is it not? No doubt you and your friend are clever men,
but you will need all your cleverness to provide comfortable
accommodation for these ladies' luggage as well as themselves. I would not
mind betting you ten to one that you will fail to do it to their satisfaction."
"I'll take the bet if the ladies don't mind," responded Terry promptly,
those lazy Irish eyes of his very bright and dark.
"What—a bet? Why, that will be real fun," laughed the Countess,
showing her dimples. "What is it to be?"
A slightly anxious expression hardened the lines of the Prince's face
when he found himself taken in earnest. "A thousand francs against a
hundred of yours shall it be, Monsieur? I don't wish to plunge my hand into
your pockets," said he, shrewdly making a virtue of his caution.
"As you like," Terry assented. "Now for the test. Your luggage has come
down, Countess?"
"Yes; here it all is," said Mrs. Kidder, guiltily indicating three stout hotel
porters who stood in the background heavily laden. "Dear me, it does look
as if it was going to be a mighty tight squeeze, doesn't it?"
In response to a gesture, the porters advanced in line, like the Three
Graces; and counting rapidly, I made out that their load consisted of one
good-sized "Innovation" cabin box, two enormous alligator-skin dressing
bags, one small bag, and two capacious hold-alls, umbrellas, parasols, and a
tea-basket.

I began to tremble for more than Terry's five pounds. I now saw all the
Prince's guile. He had somehow managed to produce his car, and had, no
doubt, used all his eloquence to persuade Mrs. Kidder that she would be
justified in changing her mind at the last moment. That he had failed was
owing either to her sense of honour or her liking for the English-speaking
races over foreigners, even princely ones. But refusing to abandon hope,
His Highness had pinned his last fluttering rag of faith upon the chance that
our car would fail to fulfil its contract. With this chance, and this alone still
to depend upon, he had probably kept his melancholy chauffeur up all night,
sponging and polishing. If the Panhard refused to absorb the ladies' luggage,
there would be his radiant chariot waiting to console them in the bitter hour
of their disappointment.
As Terry stood measuring each piece of luggage with his eye, silently
apportioning it a place in the car, I felt as I had felt at "Monte" when, at
roulette, as many as three of my hard-won five franc pieces might easily go
"bang," like the sixpence of another canny Scot. Will it be rouge; will it be
noir?... I could never look; and I could not look now.
Turning to Beechy, who stood at my shoulder eagerly watching, I flung
myself into conversation. "What are you laughing at?" I asked.
"At all of you," said the Infant. "But especially the Prince."
"Why especially the Prince?" I was growing interested.
"I should think you'd know."
"How could I know?"
"Because I guess you're pretty bright. Sometimes I look at you, and you
seem to be thinking the same things I am. I don't know whether that makes
me like you or hate you, but anyway it makes me give you credit for good
wit. I'm not exactly stupid."
"I've noticed that. But about the Prince?"
"Can't you guess how he got his automobile just in the nick of time?"
"Yes, I can guess; but maybe it wouldn't be right."

"And maybe it would. Let's see."
"Well, the Countess heard favourably from her lawyer in Denver on
Tuesday, and paid down something in advance for the Dalmatian estate."
"And the title. Right first time. The 'something' was eight thousand
dollars."
"Phew!"
"That's just the word for it. When she's seen the place, she'll pay the rest
—eight thousand more. Quite a lot for those gold crowns on the luggage;
but we all have our dolls with eyes to open or shut, and poor Mamma hasn't
had any chance to play dolls till just lately. She's busy now having heaps of
fun, and I'm having a little, too, in my simple childish way. Well, so long as
we don't interfere with each other!... The Prince sees that Mamma can
afford to buy dolls, so he would like to play with her, and me, and—"
"And he doesn't want Barrymore and me in the playroom."
"I thought you were bright! It made him just sick to think of you two
walking off with us from under his nose. There was his automobile in Paris,
and there was he here, perfectly useless, because I'm sure he'd lent the auto
to his uncle."
"To his uncle?" I echoed.
"Don't you say that in England, or Scotland, or wherever you come from?
'Put it up the Spout'—pawned it; and he couldn't move one way or the other
till he'd got Mamma's money. The minute that was in his pocket he began to
plan. The first thing he did was to tell Mamma that he had a surprise for her,
which he'd been getting ready for several days, and it would be spoiled if
we all went off with you and that awfully good-looking chauffeur of yours
on Thursday. He said he must have till Saturday morning, and Mamma was
so curious to know what the mystery was, and so afraid of hurting a real
live Prince's feelings, that she was finally persuaded to wait."
"Oh, that is the explanation of her letter to me."
"Yes. I suspected what was going on, but she didn't; having dimples
makes people so soft and good-natured. I don't know what the Prince did

after she'd given her word to stay, but I guessed."
"He wired money to his chauffeur in Paris or somewhere, had the car got
out of the clutches of that relative you referred to, and brought on here at
top speed."
"But not its own speed. When it arrived here last night, it was just as
spick and span as it is now."
"Then it must have come by train."
"That's what I think. I bet the Prince was too much afraid some accident
might happen to it on the way, and upset all his plans, to trust to having the
thing driven down here by road."
"You must be careful not to let your brain develop too fast," I pleaded,
"or when you grow up, you—"
"That's such a long time off, I don't need to worry yet," Miss Kidder
remarked demurely. "Do you think I look more than my age?"
"No, but you talk more," said I.
"How can you judge? What do you know about little girls like me?"
"I don't know anything about little girls like you, because all the rest got
broken; but if you'll teach me, I'll do my best to learn."
"The Prince is doing his best too, I guess. I wonder which will learn
faster?"
"That depends partly on you. But I should have thought all his time was
taken up with your mother."
"Oh my! no. He wants her to think that. But you see, he's got more time
than anything else, so he has plenty to spare for me, and Maida too. Do you
know what he called us to a friend of his in this hotel? The friend's wife told
her maid, and she passed it on to our Agnes, who repeated it to me because
we were sending her away. 'Kid, Kidder, Kiddest.' I'm Kiddest, of course;
that's easy enough; but it would save the Prince lots of trouble and brain-fag
if he only knew which was 'Rich,' which 'Richer,' and which 'Richest.'"

"Heavens!" I ejaculated. "If you have got together all this mass of
worldly wisdom at thirteen, what will you have accumulated at twenty?"
"It all depends on when Mamma allows me to be twenty," retorted the
little wretch. And what lengths this indecently frank conversation might
have reached between us I dare not think, had not an exclamation from
Terry cut it short.
"What do you say to that, Countess, and Miss Destrey? Have I won the
bet?" he was demanding, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, as he
stood to survey his work.
If I had not infinite belief in Terry's true Irish ingenuity, I would have
considered the day and the bet both lost before the test had been essayed.
But he had justified my faith, and there on the almost obliterated lines of the
motor-car, behold a place for everything, and everything in its place.
On one step the "Innovation" cabin-box reared itself on end like a
dwarfish obelisk; a fat hold-all adorned each mud-guard, where it lay like
an underdone suet pudding; the two huge dressing-bags had been pushed
under the corner seats of the tonneau, which fortunately was of generous
dimensions, while the third and smallest one (no doubt Miss Destrey's) was
so placed that it could be used as a footstool, or pushed to the front out of
the way. Umbrellas and parasols stood upright in a hanging-basket
especially designed for them; books and maps had disappeared into a box,
which was also a shelf on the back of the driver's seat, and the tea-basket
had been lashed on top of this.
The Prince's voice responded to Terry's question with ribald mirth before
it could be answered by the ladies.
"Ha, ha, ha!" cried he, shouting with laughter at the appearance of the
car; and even my lips twitched, though I would have vowed it was St.
Vitus's dance if anyone had accused me of a smile. "Ha, ha, the automobile
looks like nothing so much as a market-woman going home with the family
provisions for a month. But will she ever get home?" Here he became
spasmodic, and as he had made a present of his picturesque smile to all the
lookers-on as well as to those whom it most concerned, a grin rippled over
the faces of the various groups as a breeze ruffles the surface of a pond.

If I could have done His Highness Prince Dalmar-Kalm a mischief at this
moment, without imperilling my whole future, I would have stuck at
nothing; but there is capital punishment in France, and, besides, there were
no weapons handy except the ladies' hatpins. Still, it was useless denying it,
the car looked, if not like a market-woman, at least like a disreputable old
tramp of the motor world, with its wreaths of luggage looped on anyhow, as
if it were a string of giant sausages; and I hated the Prince not only for his
impertinent pleasure in our plight, but for the proud magnificence of his car,
which gained new lustre in the disgrace of ours.
"You have more, what do you call it in English—cheek, is it not?—than
most of your countrymen, to ask the ladies whether they can be satisfied
with that," he went on, between his mirthful explosions. "Chère Countess,
do not let your kind heart run away with you. Let me tell Sir Ralph Moray
that it is impossible for you to tour with him under such conditions, which
are surely not what you had a right to expect. If you will go with me,
that"—pointing a derisive finger at the Panhard—"can follow with the
luggage."
Mrs. Kidder shook her auburn head, though her dimples were obscured,
and a pinkness of complexion for which she had not paid betrayed the fact
that her amour propre was writhing under this ordeal. Poor little woman, I
really pitied her, for even with my slight knowledge of her character, I
guessed that she had dreamed of the sensation the departure en automobile
of a party so distinguished would create at the hotel. She had confidingly
judged the charms of the advertised car from those of the advertisers, and
this was her reward. Could we blame her if, in the bitterness of
mortification, she yielded to the allurement of that glittering car which was
our detractor's best argument? But she was loyal on the rack.
"No," she said, "I never backed out of anything yet, and I'm not going to
now. Besides, we don't want to, do we, girls? Sir Ralph's automobile is just
as nice as it can be, and it's our fault, not his, or Mr. Barrymore's, if we've
got a little more luggage than we were told we ought to take. I guess we'll
get along all right as soon as we're used to it, and we shall have the time of
our lives."

"Mamma, you're a brick, and I'm glad Papa married you," was Beechy's
pæan of praise.
"And I think the way our things are arranged looks really graceful," said
Miss Destrey. "Mr. Barrymore has won that bet easily, hasn't he, Kitty and
Beechy?"
"Yes," came faintly from the Countess and cordially from the child. And I
whistled "Hail, the Conquering Hero" sotto voce, as Dalmar-Kalm, with a
smile like a dose of asafœtida, counted out the amount of his lost wager.
"Well," he said, squaring his shoulders to make the best of a bad bargain,
"you are three brave ladies to trust yourselves in a machine without room,
speed, or power to cross the Alps."
"You can go to the Cathedral at Monaco and pray for us to Saint Joseph,
who, Agnes told me, looks after travellers," said Beechy. "But I do think a
more modern saint ought to be invented for motorists."
"I shall do better than that. I shall be your protecting saint. I shall go with
you as a surgeon attends a company of soldiers," returned the Prince, with
his air of grand seigneur. "That is, I shall keep as near you as a twenty-
horse-power car with a light load can possibly keep to a twelve, with three
times the load it's fitted to carry."
"You're not very complimentary to Mamma," glibly remarked the
Irrepressible.
"I fancy, in spite of our load," said Terry with undaunted cheerfulness,
"we shall find room to stow away a coil of rope which may prove useful for
towing the Prince's car over some of those Alps he seems to think so
formidable, in case he decides to—er—follow us. If I'm not mistaken,
Prince, your motor is a Festa, made in Vienna, isn't it?"
"Certainly; the most successful in Austria. And mine is the handsomest
car the company has yet turned out. It was a special order."
"There's an old proverb which says, 'all isn't gold that glitters.' I don't
know whether it's apropos to anything that concerns us or not, but we shall
perhaps remember it sooner or later. Now, ladies, I think everything is

shipshape, and there's nothing to keep us any longer. How would you like to
sit? Some people think the best place beside the driver, but—"
"Oh, I wouldn't sit there for worlds with no horse in front to fall out on in
case anything happened!" exclaimed Mrs. Kidder; "and I couldn't let
Beechy either. Maida is her own mistress, and can do as she likes."
"If that girl is going to get in the habit of sitting by Terry day after day," I
hurriedly told myself, "I might far better have let him sell his car and grow
ostriches or something in South Africa. That idea shall be nipped before it is
a bud."
"I fear I should take up too much room in the tonneau," I suggested with
feigned meekness. "You ladies had better have it all to yourselves, and then
you can be comfortable. Terry and I, on the driver's seat, will act as a kind
of screen for you against the wind."
"But you really don't take up nearly as much room as Maida does in her
thick motor-coat," said Mrs. Kidder. "If she's not afraid—"
"Of course I'm not afraid!" cut in Maida.
"Well, then, I think it would be nicer if Sir Ralph sat with us, Beechy,"
went on Mrs. Kidder, "unless it would bore him."
Naturally I had to protest that, on the contrary, such an arrangement
would be what I most desired, had I dared to consult my own selfish
wishes. And I had to see the Vestal Virgin (looking incredibly interesting
with her pure face and dark eyes framed with the motor-hood) helped to
seat herself in fatal proximity to my unfortunate friend. Talk of a powder
magazine and a lighted match!—well, there you have the situation as I felt
it, though I was powerless for the moment to avert a catastrophe.

V

A CHAPTER OF ADVENTURES

The Prince let us take the lead. He could start twenty minutes later and
still easily pass us before the frontier, he said. He had two or three

telegrams to send, and one or two little affairs to settle; but he would not be
long in catching us up, and after that the ladies might count upon his
services in any—er—any emergency.
"He might better have gone on ahead and polished up that old castle of
his a bit before Mrs. Kidder sees it," Terry murmured to me; but we had no
right to object to the Prince's companionship, if it were agreeable to our
employers, and we uttered no audible word of dissent to his plan.
Beechy and her mother had the two corner seats in the roomy tonneau,
and I settled myself on the flap which lets down when the door is closed. In
doing this, I was not unconscious of the fact that if the fastening of the door
gave way owing to vibration or any other cause, I should indubitably go
swinging out into space; also, that if this disagreeable accident did occur, it
would be my luck to have it happen when the back of the car was hanging
over a precipice. Nevertheless I kept a calm face. These things usually
befall some one else rather than one's self; the kind of some one else you
read of over your morning coffee, murmuring, "Dear me, how horrid!"
before you take another sip.
Terry started the car, and though it carried five persons and enough
luggage for ten (I speak of men, not women), we shot away along the
perfect road, like an arrow from the bow.
At our first fine panther bound, Mrs. Kidder half rose in her seat and
seized my right arm, while Beechy's little hand clutched anxiously at my
left knee.
"Oh, mercy!" the Countess exclaimed. "Tell him not to go so fast—oh,
quick! we'll be killed."
"No, we won't, Don't be frightened; it's all right," I answered soothingly,
primed by my late experience in leaving the Châlet des Pins. "Why, we're
going slowly—crawling at the rate of twenty—"
"Fifteen!" laughed our chauffeur over his shoulder.
"Fifteen miles an hour," I amended my sentence wondering in what way
the shock of surprise had affected the Vestal Virgin. Somehow I couldn't

fancy her clawing weakly at any part of Terry's person. "You wouldn't have
us go slower, would you? The Prince is sure to be watching."
"Oh, I don't know," wailed Mrs. Kidder. "I didn't think it would be like
this. Isn't it awful?"
"I believe I—I'm going to like it by-and-by," gasped Beechy, her eyes as
round as half-crowns, and as big. "Maida, have you fainted?"
Miss Destrey looked back into the tonneau, her face pale, but radiant. "I
wouldn't waste time fainting," said she. "I'm buckling on my wings."
"Wish she were a coward!" I thought. "Terry hates 'em like poison, and
would never forgive her if she didn't worship motoring at the first go-off."
As for me, I have always found a certain piquant charm in a timid woman.
There is a subtle flattery in her almost unconscious appeal to superior
courage in man which is perhaps especially sweet to an undersized chap
like me; and I had never felt more kindly to the Countess and her daughter
than I did at this moment.
As Lothair with his Corisande, I "soothed and sustained their agitated
frames" so successfully, that the appealing hands stole back to their
respective laps, but not to rest in peace for long. The car breasted the small
hill at the top of the Cap, sturdily, and we sped on towards Mentone, which,
with its twin, sickle bays, was suddenly disclosed like a scene on the stage
when the curtains have been noiselessly drawn aside. The picture of the
beautiful little town, with its background of clear-cut mountains, called
forth quavering exclamations from our reviving passengers; but a few
minutes later when we were in the long, straight street of Mentone, weaving
our swift way between coming and going electric trams, all the good work I
had accomplished had to be done over again.
"I can't stand it," moaned Mrs. Kidder, looking, in her misery, like a
frost-bitten apple. "Oh, can't the man see that street car's going to run us
down? And now there's another, coming from behind. They'll crush us
between them. Mr. Terrymore, stop—stop! I'll give you a thousand dollars
to take me back to Cap Martin. Oh, he doesn't hear! Sir Ralph—why you're
laughing!"

"Mamma, you'd send a mummied cat into hysterics," giggled Beechy. "I
guess together we'd make the fortune of a dime museum, if they could show
us now. But the cars didn't run over us, did they?"
"No, but the next ones will—and oh, this cart! Mr. Terrymore's the
queerest man, he's steering right for it. No, we've missed it this time."
"We'll miss it every time, you'll see," I reassured her. "Barrymore is a
magnificent driver; and look, Miss Destrey isn't nervous at all."
"She hasn't got as much to live for as Mamma and I have," said Beechy,
trying to hide the fact that she was holding on to the side of the car. "You
might almost as well be smashed in an automobile as end your days in a
convent."
Here was a revelation, but before I had time to question the speaker
further, she and her mother were clinging to me again as if I were a Last
Straw or a Forlorn Hope.
This sort of thing lasted for four or five minutes, which doubtless
appeared long to them, but they were not in the least tedious for me. I was
quite enjoying myself as a Refuge for Shipwrecked Mariners, and I was
rather sorry than otherwise when the mariners began to find their own
bearings. They saw that, though their escapes seemed to be by the breadth
of a hair, they always were escapes, and that no one was anxious except
themselves. They probably remembered, also, that we were not pioneers in
the sport of motoring; that some thousands of other people had done what
we were doing now, if not worse, and still lived to tell the tale—with
exaggerations.
Presently the strained look left their faces; their bodies became less rigid;
and when they began to take an interest in the shops and villas I knew that
the worst was over. My arm and knee felt lonely and deserted, as if their
mission in life had been accomplished, and they were now mere obstacles,
occupying unnecessary space in the tonneau.
As for Terry, I could see by the set of his shoulders and the way he held
his head that he was pleased with life, for he is one of those persons who
shows his feelings in his back. He had fought against the idea of this trip,
but now that the idea was crystallizing into fact he was happy in spite of

himself. After all, what could he ask for that he had not at this moment? The
steering wheel of his beloved motor (preserved for him by my cunning)
under his hand; beside him a plucky and beautiful girl; behind him a
devoted friend; in front, the fairest country in the world, and a road which
would lead him to the Alps and to Piedmont; to stately Milan and to the
blue, rapturous reaches of Como; a road that would beckon him on and on,
past villages sleeping under cypresses on sunny hillsides to Verona, the city
of the "star-crossed lovers;" to Giotto's Padua, and by peerless Venice to
strange Dalmatia, where Christian and Moslem look distrustfully into one
anothers' eyes.
What all this would be to Terry I knew, even though he was playing a
part distasteful to him; for if he had missed being born an Irishman, and had
reconciled it to his sense of humour to be born at all, he would certainly
have been born an Italian. He loves Italy; he breathes the air as the air of
home, drawn gratefully into the lungs after a long absence. He learned to
speak Italian as easily as he learned to walk, and he could pour out liquid
line after line of old Italian poetry, if he had not all a British male's self-
conscious fear of making an ass of himself. History was the only thing
except cricket and rowing, in which he distinguished himself at Oxford, and
Italian history was to him what novels are to most boys, though had it
occurred to him at the time that he was "improving his mind" by reading it,
he would probably have shut up the book in disgust.
He was not a stranger in the country to which we were going, though he
had never entered it by this gate, and most of his motoring had been done in
France; but I knew that he would revel in visiting once more the places he
loved, in his own car.
"Have you ever been in Italy?" I asked the Countess, but she was evilly
fascinated by a dog which seemed bent on committing suicide under our
car, and it was Beechy who answered.
"We've never been anywhere before, any of us," she said. "Mamma and I
only had our machinery set running a few months ago, but now we are
wound up, goodness knows how far we'll get. As for Maida—she's no
mechanical doll like us. But do you know the play about the statue that
came to life?"

"Galatea?" I suggested.
"Yes, that's the name. Maida's like that; and I suppose she'll go back as
soon as she can, and ask to be turned into a statue again."
"What do you mean?" I ventured to inquire; for these hints of the child's
about her cousin were gradually consuming me to a grey ash with curiosity.
"I can't tell you what I mean, because I promised I wouldn't. But that's
what Maida means."
"What she means?"
"Yes, to go back and be turned into a statue, forever and ever."
I ought to have been glad that the girl destined herself for a colder fate
than a union with a happy-go-lucky Irishman as poor as herself, but
somehow I was not glad. Watching the light glint on a tendril of spun gold
which had blown out from the motor-hood, I could not wish her young heart
to be turned to marble in that mysterious future to which Beechy Kidder
hinted she was self-destined.
"Perhaps I'd better make love to her myself," was the suggestion that
flashed into my mind; but innate canniness sturdily pushed it out again.
With my seven hundred a year, and The Riviera Sun only just beginning to
shed a few golden beams, I could not afford to take a penniless beauty off
Terry's hands, even to save him from a disastrous marriage or her from the
fate of Galatea.
Yet what a day it was in which to live and love, and motor over perfect
roads through that radiant summer-land which the Ligurians loved, the
Romans conquered, and the modern world comes from afar to see.
Though it was early in April, with Easter but a few days behind us, the
sky, the air, the flowers, belonged to June—a rare, rich June to praise in
poetry or song. Billows of roses surged over old pink and yellow stucco
walls, or a soaring flame of scarlet geranium ran along their tops devouring
trails of ivy with a hundred fiery tongues. White villas were draped with
gorgeous panoply of purple-red bougainvillea; the breeze in our faces was
sweet with the scent of lemon blossoms and a heavier under-tone of white-

belled datura. Far away, over that polished floor of lapis-lazuli which was
the sea, summer rain-clouds boiled up above the horizon, blue with the soft
grey-blue of violets; and in the valleys, between horned or pointed
mountains, we saw spurts of golden rain glittering in the morning sun.
What a world! How good to be in it, to be "in the picture" because one
had youth, and was not hideous to look upon. How good to be in a motor-
car. This last thought made the chorus at the end of each verse for me. I was
very glad I had put that advertisement in The Riviera Sun, and that "Kid,
Kidder, and Kiddest" had been before any one else in answering it.
I could hear Terry telling Miss Destrey things, and I knew that if they
listened the others could hear him too. This was well, because an unfailing
flow of information was included in the five guineas a day, and I should
have been embarrassed had I, as the supposed owner of the car, been called
upon to supply it.
I listened with a lazy sense of proprietorship in the man, as my chauffeur
related the pretty legend of St. Agnes's ruined castle and the handsome
Pagan who had loved the Christian maiden; while he described the exquisite
walks to be found up hidden valleys among the serrated mountains behind
Mentone; and enlarged upon the charms of picnics with donkeys and lunch-
baskets under canopies of olives or pines, with a carpet of violets and
primroses.
He seemed well up in the history of the Grimaldis and that exciting
period when Mentone and legend-crusted Roquebrune had been under the
rule of tyrannical princes of that name, as well as Hercules's rock, Monaco,
still their own. He knew, or pretended to know, the precise date when
Napoleon III. filched Nice and Savoy from reluctant Italy as the price of
help against the hated Austrians. Altogether, I was so pleased with the way
in which he was beginning, that I should have been tempted to raise his
wages had he been my paid chauffeur.
We skimmed past Englishmen and English or American girls in Panama
hats, on their way to bathe or play tennis; on all hands we heard the English
tongue. Skirting the Old Town, piled high upon its narrow nose of land, we
entered the East Bay, and so climbed up to the French side of the Pont St.
Louis.

"Now for some red tape," explained Terry. "When I came to the Riviera
this season I had no idea of going further, and I'm sorry to say I left my
papers in London, where apparently they've disappeared. But as the
Countess doesn't care to come back into France, I hope it won't matter
much."
As he spoke, a douanier lounged out of his little whitewashed lair, and
asked for that which Terry had just said he had not.
"I have no papers," Terry informed him, with a smile so agreeable that
one hoped it might take away the sting.
"But you intend to return to France?" persisted the official, who evidently
gave even a foreigner credit for wishing to rush back to the best country on
earth with as little delay as possible.
"No," said Terry apologetically. "We are on our way to Italy and Austria,
and may go eventually to England by the Hook of Holland."
The douanier gave us up as hopeless, with a resigned shrug of his
shoulders. He vanished into his lair, consulted a superior officer, and after a
long delay returned with the news that we must pay ten centimes, probably
as a penance for our mulish stupidity in leaving France.
I dropped a penny into his palm.
"Will you have a receipt for this sum?" he asked.
"No, thanks," I smiled. "I have infinite trust in your integrity."
"Perhaps we'd better get the receipt all the same," said Terry. "I've never
been paperless before, and there may be some fuss or other."
"It took them twenty minutes to decide about their silly ten centimes,"
said the Countess "and it will take them twenty more at least to make out a
receipt for it. Do let's go on, if he'll let us. I'm dying to see what's on the
other side of this bridge. We haven't been over into Italy before; there was
so much to do in Nice and Monte Carlo."
"All right, we'll risk it, then, as you wish it," Terry agreed; and our
prophetic souls did not even turn over in their sleep.

On we went, up the steep hill which, with our load, we were obliged to
climb so slowly that Terry and I were ashamed for the car, and tried
diplomatically to make it appear that, had we liked, we could have flown up
with undiminished speed.

As he spoke a douanier lounged out of his little
whitewashed lair
Terry pointed out objects of interest here and there. I questioned him
rapidly and he, playing into my hand, answered as quickly, so that, if our
wheels lagged, our tongues gave the effect of keeping up a rattling pace.
"Don't you think there's something particularly interesting and romantic
about frontiers?" asked Terry of the company in general. "Only a fictitious
and arbitrary dividing line, one would say, and yet what a difference on
either side, one from the other! Different languages, different customs,

prejudices so different that people living within ten yards of each other are
ready to go to war over them. Here, for instance, though the first thing one
thinks of in crossing the bridge is the splendid view, the second thought that
comes must be, how bare the Italian country looks compared to the
luxuriant cultivation we're leaving behind. We're turning our backs now on
cosy comfort, well-kept roads, tidy houses, tidy people; and we're on our
way to meet beggars, shabbiness, and rags, poverty everywhere staring us
in the face. Yet much as I admire France, it's to Italy I give my love."
"Talking of frontiers," I flung back the ball to him, "I've often asked
myself why it is that a whole people should with one accord worship coffin-
beds, six inches too short for a normal human being, hard wedges instead of
bolsters, and down coverings three feet thick; while another whole people
just round a geographical corner fiercely demand brass beds, springy
mattresses, and blankets light as—as love. But nobody has ever
satisfactorily answered that question, which may be far more important in
solving the profound mystery of racial differences than it would seem."
"Why are you prudent and economical, and I reckless and extravagant?"
inquired Terry.
"Because I come from the country that took over England, and you from
the country that England took over," I explained. But Terry only laughed,
being too busy to pick up the cudgels for his native land. "Probably that's
also why I'm a chauffeur while you're an editor," he added, and Miss
Destrey's little nose and long curve of dark eyelash, seen by me in profile,
expressed the sympathy which one young soul in misfortune must feel for
another.
"Now we're in Italy," he went on. "What I said is coming true already.
Look at these carts crawling to meet us down the hill. The harness seems to
be a mere collection of 'unconsidered trifles,' picked up accidently by the
drivers; bits of leather, string and rope. And the road you see is strewn with
loose stones, though a few metres further back it was so smooth one might
dance on it. In dear, lazy Italy, steam-rollers are almost as unknown as
dragons. In most districts, if one wants to mend a road, one dumps some
stones on it, and trusts to luck and traffic to have them eventually ground in.

But luckily our tyres are almost as trustworthy as the Bank of England, and
we don't need to worry about the roads."
At the pink Italian custom house Terry got down and vanished within, to
pay the deposit and receive certain documents without which we could not
"circulate" on Italian soil. Far above our heads looked down the old, brown
keep of the Grimaldis, once lords of all the azure coast; below us glittered
Mentone, pink and blue and golden in the sun; beyond Monte Carlo sat
throned, siren-like, upon her rock.
Terry had scarcely engaged the attention of the officials when the buzz of
a motor, livelier and more nervous than our faithful "thrum, thrum," called
to us to turn our heads; and there was Prince Dalmar-Kalm's brilliant car
flying up the hill, even as we had wished to fly.
The Prince stopped his motor close to ours, to speak with the Countess
sitting alone in it, and announced that he would have overtaken us long ago,
had he not found himself obliged to pause for a talk with the ex-Empress
Eugenie.
This announcement much impressed Mrs. Kidder, who doubtless realized
more fully than before her good fortune in having such a distinguished
personage for a travelling companion.
He stood leaning on the side of our luggage-wreathed vehicle, with an air
of charming condescension. There was no need for him to hurry over the
formalities of the douane, he said, for even if he were considerably behind
us in starting, he would catch us up soon after we had reached La Mortola.
Thus beguiled, the half-hour occupied by the leisurely officials in
providing us with papers and sealing the car with an important looking
leaden seal, passed not too tediously for the ladies. Finally, the Prince saw
us off, smiling a "turned-down smile" at our jog trot as we proceeded up
that everlasting hill, which runs like a shelf along the face of the great grey
cliff of rock.
Far below, azure waves draped the golden beach with blue and silver
gauze and fringed it daintily with a foam of lace.

Then, at last, the steep ascent came to an end, with a curve of the road
which plunged us down into a region of coolness and green shadow.
"Why, I don't think Italy's so shabby after all," exclaimed the Countess.
"Just see that pretty little Maltese cross above the road, and that fine school-
house—"
"Ah, but we're in Hanbury-land now," I said.
"Hanbury-land? I never heard of it. Is it a little independent principality
like Monacoa? But how funny it should have an English-sounding name
sandwiched in right here between Italy and France."
"The lord of the land is an Englishman, and a benevolent one, a sort of
fairy god-father to the poor in all the country round," I explained. "You
won't find Hanbury-land mentioned on the map; nevertheless it's very real,
fortunately for its inhabitants; and here's the gate of the garden which leads
to the royal palace. La Mortola is a great show place, for the public are
allowed to go in on certain days. I forget if this is one of them, but perhaps
they will let us see the garden, nevertheless. Shall I ask?"
It was in my mind that, if we stopped, we might miss the Prince as well
as see the garden, so that we should be killing two birds with one stone, and
I was glad when the Countess caught eagerly at the suggestion that we
should beg for a glimpse of La Mortola, a place famed throughout Europe.
Permission was given; the big iron gates swung open to admit us. We
entered, and a moment later were descending a long flight of stone steps to
terraces far below the level of the road where the car stood waiting our
return.
Had Aladdin rubbed his lamp in the days before his unfortunate
misunderstanding with the Geni and demanded the most beautiful of
gardens, the fulfilment of his wish could have taken no fairer form than this.
Strange, tropical flowers, vivid as flame, burned in green recesses; water-
sprites upset their caskets of pearls over rock-shelves into translucent pools
where lilies lay asleep, dreaming of their own pale beauty. Long, green
pergolas, starred with flowers, framed blue-veiled pictures of distant coast-
line, and mediæval strongholds, coloured with the same burnt umber as the
hills on which they stood, gloomed and glowed across a cobalt sea.

There is nothing that pleases the normal male more than to be able to
point out objects worthy of interest or admiration to the female of his kind.
Since time immemorial, have not landscape-pictures in books of travel been
filled in, in the foreground, with the figures of men showing the scenery to
women? Did any one ever see such a work of art representing a woman as
indicating any point of view to a man? No doubt many could have done so;
and the ladies in the pictures had probably noticed the objects in question
before their male escorts pointed to them; but knowing the amiable
weakness of the other sex, they politely refrained from saying, "Oh, we saw
that long ago."
Thus did Terry and I, after the conventional traditions of our species, lead
our little party through avenues of cypresses, to open rock-spaces, or among
a waving sea of roses to battle-grounds of rare cacti, with writhing arms like
octopi transformed into plants.
Here, peering down into a kind of dyke, paved with rough tesselation, we
vied with each other in telling our charges that this was the old Roman road
to Gaul, the Aurelian Way, over which Julius Cæsar, St. Catherine of Siena,
Dante, and other great ones passed. Then we showed them one of
Napoleon's old guns, covered with shells, as when it was fished out of the
sea. We enlarged upon the fact that there was no tree, shrub, or blossom on
the known face of the earth of which a specimen did not grow at La
Mortola; and when we had wandered for an hour in the garden without
seeing half there was to see, we climbed the long flight of steps again,
congratulating ourselves—Terry and I—that we had played Dalmar-Kalm
rather a neat trick. The crowd of villagers who had clustered round our car
outside the entrance gates would screen it from the Prince as he flashed by,
and he would go on and on, wondering how we had contrived to get so far
ahead.
Our way would take us, after passing through Ventimiglia, up the Roya
Valley which Terry had decided upon as a route because of its wild and
unspoiled beauty, different from anything that our passengers could have
seen in their brief experience of the Riviera. But as there were no inns
which offered decent entertainment for man or automobile within
reasonable distance, we were to lunch at Ventimiglia, and no arrangement
had been made with Dalmar-Kalm concerning this halt. His confidence—

perhaps well founded—in the superiority of his speed over ours had led him
to believe that he could pause at our side for consultation whenever he
wished. Therefore, we had left Cap Martin without much discussion of
plans. Mrs. Kidder was of opinion that we would find him waiting in front
of the "best hotel in Ventimiglia," with an excellent luncheon ordered.
"The best hotel in Ventimiglia!" poor lady, she had an awakening before
her. Not only was there no Prince, but there was no best hotel. Old
Ventimiglia, in its huddled picturesqueness, must delight any man with eyes
in his head; new Ventimiglia must disgust any man with a vacancy under
his belt. As we sat in the shabby dining-room of a seventh-rate inn (where
the flies set an example of attentiveness the waiters did not follow),
pretending to eat macaroni hard as walking-sticks and veal reduced to
chiffons, I feared the courage of our employers would fail. They could
never, in all their well-ordered American lives, have known anything so
abominable as this experience into which we had lured them, promising a
pilgrimage of pleasure. But the charmingly dressed beings, who looked like
birds of paradise alighted by mistake in a pigsty, made sport of the squalor
which we had expected to evoke their rage.
"Dear me, I wish we'd brought some chewing gum," was Beechy's one
sarcasm at the expense of the meal, and Maida and the Countess laughed
merrily at everything, even the flies, which they thought did not know their
own power as well as American flies.
"We've some lovely cakes and candy packed in that sweet tea-basket we
bought at an English shop in Paris," said Mrs. Kidder; "but I suppose we'd
better not get anything out to eat now, for fear of hurting the waiters'
feelings. What do you think, Sir Ralph?"
"Personally, I should like nothing better than to hurt them," I replied
severely, "but I'm thinking of myself. Cakes and candy on top of those
walking-sticks! 'T were more difficult to build on such a foundation than to
rear Venice on its piles and wattles.
"We'd better save what we have till later on," said Maida. "About four
o'clock, perhaps we shall be glad to stop somewhere, and I can make tea. It
will be fun having it in the automobile."

"There she goes now, revealing domestic virtues!" I thought ruefully. "It
will be too much for Teddy to find her an all-round out-of-doors and
indoors girl in one. He always said the combination didn't exist; that you
had to put up with one or the other in a nice girl, and be jolly thankful for
what you'd got."
But Terry did not seem to be meditating upon the pleasing trait just
brought to light by his travelling companion. He remarked calmly that by
tea-time we should doubtless have reached San Dalmazzo, a charming little
mountain village with an old monastery turned into an inn; and then he
audibly wondered what had become of the Prince.
"My! What a shame, I'd almost forgotten him!" exclaimed Mrs. Kidder.
"He must have given us up in despair and gone on."
"Perhaps he's had a break-down," I suggested.
"What! with that wonderful car? He told me last night that nothing had
ever happened to it yet. He must be miles ahead of us by now."
"Then this is his astral body," said Terry. "Clever of him to 'project' one
for his car too. Never heard of its being done before."
Nor had I ever heard of an astral body who swore roundly at its
chauffeur, which this apparition now stopping in front of the restaurant
windows did. It called the unfortunate shape in leather by several strange
and creditably, or perhaps discreditably, original names, but as this flow of
eloquence was in German, it could not be appreciated by the ladies. Mrs.
Kidder knew the languages not at all, and Miss Destrey and Beechy had
remarked, when Dalmatia was proposed, that their knowledge was of the
copy-book order.
So completely upset was the Prince, that on joining us he forgot to be
sarcastic. Not a question, not a sneer as to our progress, not an apology for
being late. He flung himself into a chair at the table, ordered the waiters
about with truculence, and, having thus relieved his mind, began
complaining of his bad luck.
An Austrian Prince, when cross and hungry, can be as undesirable a
social companion as a Cockney cad, and the Countess's distinguished friend

did not show to advantage in the scene which followed. Yes, there had been
an accident. It was unheard of—abominable; entirely the fault of the
chauffeur. Chauffeurs (and he looked bleakly at Terry) were without
exception brutes—detestable brutes. You put up with them because you had
to; that was all. The automobile had merely stopped. It must have been the
simplest thing in the world for a professional to discover what was wrong;
yet this animal, Joseph, could do nothing but poke his nose into the
machinery and then shrug his hideous shoulders. Why yes, he had taken out
the valves, of course, examined the sparkling plugs, and tested the coil. Any
amateur could have done so much. It gave a good spark; there was no short
circuit; yet the motor would not start, and the chauffeur was unable to give
an explanation. Twice he had taken the car to pieces without result—
absolutely to pieces. Then, and not till then, had the creature found wit
enough to think of the carburetter. There was the trouble, and nowhere else.
All that delay and misery had been caused by some grit which had
penetrated into the carburetter and prevented the needle working. This it
was to have a donkey instead of a chauffeur.
"But it didn't occur to you that it might be the carburetter," said Terry,
taking advantage of a pause made by the arrival of the Prince's luncheon,
which that gentleman attacked with ardour.
"Why should it?" haughtily inquired Dalmar-Kalm. "I am not engaged in
that business. I pay other people to think for me. Besides, it is not with me
as with you and your friend, who must be accustomed to accidents of all
sorts on a low-powered car, somewhat out of date. But I am not used to
having mine en panne. Never mind, it will not happen again. Mon Dieu,
what a meal to set before ladies. I do not care for myself, but surely, Sir
Ralph, it would have been easy to find a better place than this to give the
ladies luncheon?"
"Sir Ralph and Mr. Barrymore wanted us to go to the railway-station,"
Miss Destrey defended us, "but we thought it would be dull, and preferred
this, so our blood is on our own heads."
We finished gloomily with lukewarm coffee, which was so long on the
way that the Countess thought we might as well wait for the "poor Prince."
Then, when we were ready, came a violent shower, which meant more

waiting, as the Countess did not agree cordially with her daughter's remark
that to "drive in the rain would be good for the complexion."
When at last we were able to start it was after three, and we should have
to make good speed if we were to arrive at San Dalmazzo even by late tea-
time. Terry was on his mettle, however, and I guessed that he was anxious
our first day should not end in failure.
Tooling out of Ventimiglia, that grim frontier town whose name has
become synonymous to travellers with waiting and desperate resignation,
we turned up by the side of the Roya, where the stream gushes seaward,
through many channels, in a wide and pebbly bed. The shower just past,
though brief, had been heavy enough to turn a thick layer of white dust into
a greasy, grey paste of mud. On our left was a sudden drop into the rushing
river, on the right a deep ditch, and the road between was as round-
shouldered as a hunchback. Seeing this natural phenomenon, and feeling
the slightly uncertain step of our fat tyres as they waddled through the pasty
mud, the pleasant smile of the proud motor-proprietor which I had been
wearing hardened upon my face. I didn't know as much about motors as our
passengers supposed, but I did know what side-slip was, and I did not think
that this was a nice place for the ladies to be initiated. There might easily be
an accident, even with the best of drivers such as we had in Terry, and I was
sure that he was having all he could do to keep on the crown of the road. At
any moment, slowly as we were going, the heavily laden car might become
skittish and begin to waltz, a feat which would certainly first surprise and
then alarm the ladies, even if it had no more serious consequences.
It was while we were in this critical situation, which had not yet begun to
dawn upon our passengers, that Dalmar-Kalm seized the opportunity of
racing past us from behind, blowing a fanfarronade on his horn, to prove
how much faster his car could go than ours. In the instant that he was
abreast of us, our tonneau, which overhung the back axle further than is
considered wise in the latest types of cars, swung outwards, with a slip of
the tyre in the grey grease, and only by an inch which seemed a mere hair's
breadth was Terry able to save us from a collision.
The Countess screamed, Beechy clung once more to my knee, and we all
glared at the red car with the white canopy as it shot ruthlessly ahead. The

Prince's tyres were strapped with spiked leather covers, which we could not
carry as they would lose us too much speed; therefore the danger of side-
slip was lessened for him, and he flew by without even knowing how near
we had been to an accident. The anger painted on our ungoggled faces he
doubtless attributed to jealousy, as he glanced back to wave a triumphant au
revoir before flashing out of sight, round a bend of the road.
There is something very human, and particularly womanish, about a
motor-car. The shock of the narrow escape we had just had seemed to have
unsteadied the nerve of our brave Panhard for the moment. We were nearing
a skew bridge, with an almost right-angled approach; and the strange
resultant of the nicely balanced forces that control an automobile skating on
"pneus" over slippery mud twisted us round, suddenly and without warning.
Instantly, oilily, the car gyrated as on a pivot, and behold, we were facing
down the valley instead of up. Terry could not had done it had he tried.
"Oh, my goodness!" quavered the Countess, in a collapse. "Am I
dreaming, or has this happened? It seems as if I must be out of my wits!"
"It has happened," answered Terry, laughing reassuringly, but far from
joyous within, I knew. "But it's nothing alarming. A little side-slip, that's
all."
"A little side-slip!" she echoed. "Then may I be preserved from a big one.
This automobile has turned its nose towards home again, of its own accord.
Oh, Sir Ralph, I'm not sure I like motoring as much as I thought I would.
I'm not sure the Hand of Providence didn't turn the car back."
"Nonsense, Mamma!" cried Beechy. "The other day the Hand of
Providence was pointing out Sir Ralph's advertisement in the newspaper. It
can't be always changing its mind, and you can't, either. We're all alive,
anyhow, and that's something."
"Ah, but how long shall we be?" moaned her mother. "I don't want to be
silly, but I didn't know that an automobile had the habits of a kangaroo and
a crab, and a base-ball, and I'm afraid I shall never get used to them."
Terry explained that his car was not addicted to producing these
sensational effects, and compared the difficulties it was now combatting
with those which a skater might experience if the hard ice were covered an

inch deep with soft soap. "We shall soon be out of this," he said, "for the
road will be better higher up where the hill begins, and the rain has had a
chance to drain away."
Cheered by these promises, the poor Countess behaved herself very well,
though she looked as if she might burst an important blood-vessel, as Terry
carefully turned his car on the slippery surface of the road's tortoise-back. I
was not happy myself, for it would have been as "easy as falling off a log"
for the automobile to leap gracefully into the Roya; but the brakes held
nobly, and as Terry had said, there was better going round the next corner.
Here the mountains began to draw together, so that we were no longer
travelling in a valley, but in a gorge. Deep shadow shut us in, as if we had
left the warm, outer air and entered a dim castle, perpetually shuttered and
austerely cold. Dark crags shaped themselves magnificently, and the scene
was of such wild grandeur that even Beechy ceased to be flippant. We drove
on in silence, listening to the battle song of the river as it fought its way on
through the rocky chasm its own strength had hewn.
The road mounted continuously, with a gentle incline, weaving its grey
thread round the blind face of the mountain, and suddenly, turning a
shoulder of rock we came upon the Prince's car which we had fancied many
kilometres in advance. The big red chariot was stationary, one wheel tilted
into the ditch at the roadside, while Dalmar-Kalm and his melancholy
chauffeur were straining to rescue it from its ignominious position.
Our Panhard had been going particularly well, as if to justify itself in its
employers' eyes after its late slip from rectitude. "She" was taking the hill
gaily, pretending not to know it from the level, and it did seem hard to play
the part of good Samaritan to one marked by nature as a Levite. But—
noblesse oblige, and—honour among chauffeurs.
Terry is as far from sainthood as I am, and I knew well that his bosom
yearned to let Dalmar-Kalm stew in his own petrol. Nevertheless, he
brought the car to anchor without a second's hesitation, drawing up
alongside the humiliated red giant. Amid the exclamations of Mrs. Kidder,
and the suppressed chuckles of the enfante terrible, we two men got out,
with beautiful expressions on our faces and dawning haloes round our
heads, to help our hated rival.

Did he thank us for not straining the quality of our mercy? His name and
nature would not have been Dalmar-Kalm if he had. His first words at sight
of the two ministering angels by his side were: "You must have brought me
bad luck, I believe. Never have I had an accident with my car until to-day,
but now all goes wrong. For the second time I am en panne. It is too much.
This viper of a Joseph says we cannot go on."
Now we began to see why the Prince's chauffeur had acquired the
countenance of a male Niobe. Wormlike resignation to utter misery was, we
had judged, his prevailing characteristic; but hard work, ingratitude, and
goodness knows how much abuse, caused the worm to turn and defend
itself.
"How go on with a change-speed lever broken short off, close to the
quadrant?" he shrilled out in French. "And it is His Highness who broke it,
changing speed too quickly, a thing which I have constantly warned him
against in driving. I cannot make a new lever here in a wilderness. I am not
a magician."
"Nor a Félicité," I mumbled, convinced that, had my all-accomplished
adjutant been a chauffeur instead of a cook, she would have been equal to
beating up a trustworthy lever out of a slice of cake.
"Be silent, brigand!" roared the Prince, and I could hardly stifle a laugh,
for Joseph is no higher than my ear. His shoulders slope; his legs are
clothespins bound with leather; his eyes swim in tears, as our car's
crankhead floats in an oil bath; and his hair is hung round his head like
many separate rows of black pins, overlapping one another.
"We shall save time by getting your car out of the ditch, anyhow,"
suggested Terry; and putting our shoulders to it, all four, we succeeded after
strenuous efforts in pushing and hauling the huge beast onto the road. I had
had no idea that anything less in size than a railway engine could be so
heavy.
There was no question but that the giant was helpless. Terry and Joseph
peered into its inner workings, and the first verdict was confirmed. "There's
an imperfection in the metal," said expert Terry. In his place, I fear I should

not have been capable of such magnanimity. I should have let the whole
blame rest upon my rival's reckless stupidity as a driver.
"It's plain you can do nothing with your car in that condition," he went
on. "After all" (even Terry's generous spirit couldn't resist this one little
dig), "it would have been well if I'd brought that coil of rope."
"Coil of rope? For what purpose?"
"To tow you to the nearest blacksmith's, where perhaps a new lever could
be forged."
"This is not a time for joking. Twelve horses cannot drag twenty-four."
"They're plucky and willing. Shall they try? Here comes a cart, whose
driver is wreathed in smiles. Labour exulting in the downfall of Capitol. But
Labour looks good-natured." "Good morning," Terry hailed him in Italian.
"Will you lend me a stout cord to tow this automobile?"
The Prince was silent. Even in his rage against Fate, against Joseph, and
against us, he retained enough common sense to remember that 'tis well to
choose the lesser of two evils.
The carter had a rope, and an obliging disposition. A few francs changed
hands, and the Hare was yoked to the Tortoise. Yoked, figuratively speaking
only, for it trailed ignominiously behind at a distance of fifteen yards, and
when our little Panhard began bumbling up the hill with its great follower, it
resembled nothing so much as a very small comet with a disproportionately
big tail.
The motor, in starting, forged gallantly ahead for a yard or two, then, as it
felt the unexpected weight dragging behind, it appeared surprised. It was,
indeed, literally "taken aback" for an instant, but only for an instant. The
brave little beast seemed to say to itself, "Well, they expect a good deal of
me, but there are ladies on board, and I won't disappoint them."
"Félicité," I murmured. "She might have stood sponser to this car."
With another tug we began to make progress, slow but steady. Joseph, as
the lighter weight, sat in his master's car, his hand on the steering-wheel,
while the Prince tramped gloomily behind in the mud. Seeing how well the

experiment was succeeding, however, he quickened his pace and ordered
the chauffeur down. "I do not think that the difference in weight will be
noticeable," he said, and as Joseph obediently jumped out the Prince sprang
in, taking the wheel. Instantly the rope snapped, and the big red chariot
would have run back had not Joseph jammed on the brake.
Terry stopped our car, and the ill-matched pair had to be united again,
with a shorter rope. "Afraid you'll have to walk, Prince," said he, when he
had finished helping Joseph, who was apparently on the brink of tears.
Dalmar-Kalm measured me with a glance. "Perhaps Sir Ralph would not
object to steering my car?" he suggested. "Then Joseph could walk, and I
could have Sir Ralph's place in the tonneau with the ladies, where a little
extra weight would do no harm. Would that not be an excellent
arrangement?"
"David left Goliath on the ground, and dragged away only his head," I
remarked. "We are dragging Goliath; and I fear his head would be the last—
er—feather. So sorry. Otherwise we should be delighted."
What the Prince said as the procession began to move slowly up-hill
again, at a pace to keep time with the "Dead March in Saul," I don't pretend
to know, but if his remarks matched his expression, I would not in any case
have recorded them here.

VI

A CHAPTER OF PREDICAMENTS

On we went, and twilight was falling in this deep gorge, so evidently cut
by the river for its own convenience, not for that of belated tourists. Here
and there in the valley little rock towns stood up impressively, round and
high on their eminences, like brown, stemless mushrooms. Each little group
of ancient dwellings resembled to my mind a determined band of men
standing back to back, shoulder to shoulder, defending their hearths and
homes from the Saracens, and saying grimly, "Come on if you dare. We'll
fight to the death, one and all of us."

At last, without further mishap, we arrived at a mean village marked
Airole on Terry's map. It was a poverty-stricken place, through which, in
happier circumstances, we should have passed without a glance, but—there,
by the roadside was a blacksmith's forge, more welcome to our eyes than a
castle double-starred by Baedeker.
Joseph's spleen reduced by the sight of his master tramping in the mud
while he steered, the little chauffeur looked almost cheerful. He promised to
have a new lever ready in half an hour, and so confident was he that he
urged us to go on. But the Prince did not echo the suggestion, and Mrs.
Kidder proposed that we should have tea while we waited.
Though it was she who gave birth to the idea, it would have been Miss
Destrey who did all the work, had not Terry and I offered such help as men
can give. He went in search of water to fill the shining kettle; I handed
round biscuits and cakes, while the Prince looked on in the attitude of
Napoleon watching the burning of Moscow.
We were as good as a circus to the inhabitants of Airole; nay, better, for
our antics could be seen gratis. The entire population of the village, and
apparently of several adjacent villages, collected round the two cars. They
made the ring, and—we did the rest. We ate, we drank, and they were merry
at our expense. The children wished also to eat at our expense, and when I
translated (with amendments) a flattering comment on Mrs. Kidder's hair
and complexion offered by an incipient Don Juan of five years, she insisted
that all the spare pastry should be distributed among the juveniles. The
division led to blows, and tears which had to be quenched with coppers;
while into the mêlée broke a desolate cry from Joseph, announcing that his
lever was a failure. The Prince strode off to the blacksmith's shop, forgetful
that he held a teacup in one hand and an éclair in the other. With custard
dropping onto the red-hot bar which Joseph hammered, he looked so forlorn
a figure that Terry was moved to pity and joined the group at the forge. He
soon discovered what Joseph might have known from the first, had he not
lived solely in the moment, like most other chauffeurs. The village forge
was not assez bien outillée for a finished lever to be produced; the Prince's
car must remain a derelict, unless we towed it into port.

We started on again, in the same order as before and at the same pace,
followed by all our village protegés, who commented frankly upon the
plight of the Prince, and the personal appearance of the whole party. At
length, however, our moving audience dwindled. A mile or two beyond
Airole the last, most enterprising boy deserted us, and we thought ourselves
alone in a twilight world. The white face of the moon peered through a cleft
in the mountain, and our own shadows crawled after us, large and dark on
the grey ribbon of the road. But there was another shadow which moved, a
small drifting shadow over which we had no control. Sometimes it was by
our side for an instant as we crept up the hill, dragging our incubus, then it
would fall behind and vanish, only to reappear again, perhaps on the other
side of the road.
"What is that tiny black thing that comes and goes?" asked Mrs. Kidder.
"Why," exclaimed Miss Destrey, "I do believe it's that forlorn little dog
that was too timid to eat from my hand in the village. He must have
followed all this time."
"Do see if it is the same dog, Prince," Beechy cried to the tall, dark figure
completing the tail of our procession.
A yelp answered. "Yes, it is he," called the Prince. "A mangy little
mongrel. I do not think he will trouble us any longer."
Then a surprising thing happened. The Vestal Virgin rose suddenly in the
car. "You have kicked him!" she exclaimed, the gentleness burnt out of her
pretty voice by a swift flame of anger. "Stop the car, Mr. Barrymore—
quickly, please. I want to get down."
Never had that Panhard of Terry's checked its career in less space. Out
jumped Maida, to my astonishment without a word of objection from her
relatives. "I will not have that poor, timid little creature frightened and
hurt," I heard her protesting as she ran back. "How could you, Prince!"
Now, though the girl was probably no more than a paid companion, she
was lovely enough to make her good opinion of importance to the most
inveterate fortune hunter, and as Miss Destrey called, "Here, doggie,
doggie," in a voice to beguile a rhinoceros, Dalmar-Kalm pleaded that what
he had done had been but for the animal's good. He had not injured the dog,

he had merely encouraged it to run home before it was hopelessly lost. "I
am not cruel, I assure you. My worst troubles have come from a warm
heart. I hope you will believe me, Miss Destrey."
"I should be sorry to be your dog, or—your chauffeur," she answered.
"He won't come back to be comforted, so I suppose after all we shall have
to go on. But I shall dream of that poor little lonely, drifting thing to-night."
Hardly had she taken her seat, however, than there was the dog close to
the car, timid, obsequious, winning, with his wisp of a head cocked on one
side. We drove on, and he followed pertinaciously. Mildly adjured by the
Countess to "go home, little dog," he came on the faster. Many adventures
he had, such as a fall over a heap of stones and entanglement in a thorn-
bush. But nothing discouraged the miniature motor maniac in the pursuit of
his love, and we began to take him for granted so completely that after a
while I, at least, forgot him. On we toiled with our burden, the moon
showering silver into the dark mountain gorges, as if it were raining stars.
The further we burrowed into the fastnesses of the Roya, the more wild
in its majestic beauty grew the valley, so famed in history and legend. The
gorge had again become a mere gash in the rock, with room only for the
road and the roaring river below. High overhead, standing up against the
sky like a warning finger, towered the ancient stronghold of Piena, once
guardian fortress of the valley; where the way curved, and crossed a high
bridge spanning the torrent, we passed a tablet of gleaming bronze set
against the rock wall, in commemoration of Masséna's victory in an early
campaign of Napoleon's against Italy. Sometimes we rushed through
tunnels, where the noise of the motor vibrated thunderously; sometimes we
looked down over sublime precipices; but the road was always good now,
and we had no longer to fear side-slip.
We met no one; nevertheless Terry got down and lit our lamps, Dalmar-
Kalm making an unnecessary delay by insisting that Joseph should light his
too. This was sheer vanity on the Prince's part. He could not bear to have
his great Bleriots dark, while our humbler acetylene illumined the way for
His Mightiness.
Suddenly we ran out of the bewildering lights and shadows, woven
across our way by the moon, into the lights of a town; and two douaniers

appeared in the road, holding up their hands for us to stop. Down jumped
Terry to see why he should be challenged in this unexpected place, and the
Prince joined him.
"Your papers, if you please," demanded the official.
Terry produced those which had been given us at the custom-house in
Grimaldi.
"But these are Italian papers. Where are those for France?" asked the
douanier.
"This is not France," said the Prince, before Terry could speak.
"It is Breil, and it is France," returned the man. "France for nine
kilometres, until Fontan, where Italian territory begins again."
Terry laughed, rather ruefully. "Well," said he, "I have no French papers,
but we paid a penny at the Pont St. Louis to leave France. This car is
French, and we ought not to pay anything to enter; nevertheless, I shall be
delighted to hand you the same sum for the privilege of coming in again."
"Ah, you paid ten centimes? Then, if you have the receipt it may be
possible to permit you to go on."
"Permit us to go on!" echoed Dalmar-Kalm angrily. "I should think so,
indeed."
"I'm sorry, I took no receipt," said Terry. "I thought it an unnecessary
formality."
"No formality is unnecessary, monsieur," said the servant of form. "I also
am sorry, but in the circumstances you cannot enter French territory without
a receipt for the ten centimes. As a man I believe implicitly that you paid
the sum, as an official I am compelled to doubt your word."
Who but a Frenchman could have been so exquisitely pompous over a
penny? I saw by Terry's face that he was far from considering the incident
closed; but he had too much true Irish tact to try and get us through by
storming.

"Let us consider," he began, "whether there is not some means of escape
from this difficulty."
But Dalmar-Kalm was in no mood to temporize, or keep silent while
others temporized. The lights of Breil showed that it was a town of
comparative importance; it was past eight o'clock; and no doubt His
Highness's temper was sharpened by a keen edge of hunger. That he—he
should be stopped by a fussy official figure-head almost within smell of
food, broke down the barrier of his self-restraint—never a formidable
rampart, as we had cause to know. In a few loud and vigorous sentences he
expressed a withering contempt for France, its institutions, its customs, and
especially its custom-houses.
"If you'd mix up the Prince's initials, as you do Mr. Barrymore's
sometimes, and call him Kalmar-Dalm, there'd be some excuse for it,"
Beechy Kidder murmured to the Countess.
"Hush, he'll hear!" implored the much-enduring lady, but there was small
danger that His Highness would hear any expostulations save his own.
The functionary's eye grew dark, and Terry frowned. Had the douanier
been insolent, my peppery Irishman would have been insolent too, perhaps,
in the hope of cowering the man by truculence more swashbuckling than his
own; but he had been as polite as his countrymen proverbially are, if not
goaded out of their suavity. "Look here, Prince," said Terry, hanging onto
his temper by a thread (for he also was hungry), "suppose you leave this
matter to me. If you'll take the ladies to the best hotel in town, Moray and I
will stop and see this thing through. We'll follow when we can."
Dalmar-Kalm snapped at the suggestion; our passengers saw that it was
for the best, and yielded. As they moved away, a shadowy form hovered in
their wake. It was the little black dog of Airole.
The Marquis of Innisfallen's first quarrel with his brother had been
caused by Terry's youthful preference for an army instead of a diplomatic
career. Now, could his cantankerous relative have seen my friend, he would
once more have shaken his head over talents wasted. The oily eloquence
which Terry lavished on that comparatively insignificant French douanier
ought to have earned him a billet as first secretary to a Legation. He

pictured the despair of the ladies if the power of France kept them prisoners
at the frontier; he referred warmly to that country's reputation for chivalry;
he offered to pay the usual deposit on a car entering France and receive it
back again at Fontan. To this last suggestion the harassed official replied
that technically his office was closed for the night, and that after eight
o'clock he could not receive money or issue papers. Finally, therefore, Terry
was reduced to appealing to the cleverness and resource of a true
Frenchman.
It was a neat little fencing-match, which ended in the triumph of Great
Britain. The functionary, treated like a gentleman by a gentleman, became
anxious to accommodate, if he could do so "consistently with honour." He
had an inspiration, and suggested that he would strain his duty by sending a
messenger with us to Fontan, there to explain that we were merely en
passage. Out of the crowd which had collected a loutish youth was chosen;
a pourboire promised; and after many mutual politenesses we were
permitted to teuf-teuf onto the sacred soil of France.
It is no more safe to judge a French country inn by its exterior, than the
soul of Cyrano de Bergerac by his nose. The inn of Breil had not an
engaging face, but it was animated by the spirit of a Brillat Savarin, by
which we were provided with a wonderful dinner in numerous courses. We
could not escape from it, lest we hurt the amour-propre of the cook, and it
was late when we were ready for our last sortie.
"You will never reach San Dalmazzo to-night, towing that car," we were
informed by the powers that were in the hotel. "The hills you have passed
are as nothing to the hills yet to come. You will do well to spend the night
with us, for if you try to get on, you will be all night upon the road."
Our passengers were asked to decide, and we expected a difference of
opinion. We should have said that the two girls would have been for
pushing on, and the Countess for stopping. But that plump lady had already
conquered the tremors which, earlier in the day, had threatened to wreck our
expedition at its outset.
"It's a funny thing," said she, "but I want to go on, just on, for the sake of
going. I never felt like that before, travelling, not even in a Mann Boudoir
car at home, which I guess is the most luxurious thing on wheels. I always

wanted to get there, wherever 'there' was; but now I want to go on and on—
I wouldn't care if it was to the end of the world, and I can't think why,
unless it's the novelty of automobiling. But it can't be that, either, I suppose,
for only a little while ago I was thinking that bed-ridden people weren't
badly off, they were so safe."
We all laughed at this (even the Prince, whom plenty of champagne had
put into a sentimental mood), and I suddenly found myself growing quite
fond of the Countess, crowns and all.
After the heat of the salle à manger, the night out of doors appeared
strangely white and cold, its purple depths drenched with moonlight, the
high remoteness of its dome faintly scintillant with icy points of stars. An
adventure seemed to lie before us. We turned wistfully to each other for the
warmth of human companionship, and had not the Prince been trying to flirt
with little Beechy unseen by Mamma, I should have felt kindly even to him.
Even as it was, I consented to let him try sitting in his own car, and the
rope, inured to suffering, had the consideration not to break.
We forged on, up, up the higher reaches of the Roya valley, so glorious in
full moonlight that it struck us into silence. The mountains towering round
us shaped themselves into castles and cathedrals of carved marble, their
façades, grey by day, glittering white and polished under the magic of the
moon. The wonderful crescent town of Saorge, hanging on the mountain-
side, would alone have been worth coming this way to see if there had been
nothing else. Veiled by the mystery of night, the old Ligurian stronghold
appeared to be suspended between two rocky peaks, like a great white
hammock for a sleeping goddess, and now and then we caught a jewelled
sparkle from her rings.
They had not told an idle tale at the inn. The road, weary of going uphill
on its knees, like a pilgrim, got suddenly upon its feet and we were on its
back, with the Prince's chariot trailing after us. Nevertheless, our car did not
falter, though the motor panted. Scarcely ever were we able to pass from the
first speed to the second, but then (as Beechy remarked), considering all
things, we ought to be thankful for any speed above that of a snail.
At Fontan—when he had vouched for us—we dismissed our oaf, with a
light heart and a heavy pocket. Again, we were in Italy, a silent, sleeping

Italy, drugged with moonlight, and dreaming troubled dreams of strangely
contorted mountains. Then suddenly it waked, for the moon was sinking,
and the charm had lost its potence. The dream-shapes vanished, and we
were in a wide, dark basin, which might be green as emerald by day. A grey
ghost in a long coat, with a rifle slung across his back, flitted into the road
and startled the Countess by signing for us to stop.
"Oh, mercy! are we going to be held up?" she whispered. "I'd forgotten
about the brigands."
"Only an Italian custom-house brigand," said Terry. "We've got to San
Dalmazzo after all, and it isn't morning yet."
"Yes, but it is!" cried Beechy. "There's a clock striking twelve."
A few minutes later we were driving along a level in the direction of the
monastery-hotel, which was said to be no more than a hundred metres
beyond the village. I had often heard of this hostelry at the little mountain
retreat of San Dalmazzo, loved and sought by Italians in the summer heat.
The arched gateway in the wall was clearly monastic, and we felt sure that
we had come to the right place, when Terry steered the car through the open
portal and a kind of tunnel on the other side.
Before the door of a long, low building he stopped the motor. Its "thrum,
thrum" stilled, the silence of the place was profound, and not a light
gleamed anywhere.
Terry got down and rang. We all waited anxiously, for much as we had
enjoyed the strange night drive, the day had been long, and the chill of the
keen mountain air was in our blood. But nothing happened, and after a short
pause Terry rang again. Silence was the only answer, and it seemed to give
denial rather than consent.
Four times he rang, and by this time the Prince and I were at his back,
striving to pierce the darkness behind the door which was half of glass. At
last a greenish light gleamed dim as a glow-worm in the distance, and
framed in it a figure was visible—the figure of a monk.
For an instant I was half inclined to believe him a ghost, haunting the
scene of past activities, for one does not expect to have the door of an hotel

opened by a monk. But ghosts have no traffic with keys and bolts; and it
was the voice of a man still bound to flesh and blood who greeted us with a
mild "Buona sera" which made the night seem young.
Terry responded and announced in his best Italian that we desired
accommodation for the night.
"Ah, I see," exclaimed the monk. "You thought that this was still a hotel?
I am sorry to disappoint you, but it ceased to be such only to-day. The house
is now once more what it was originally—a monastery. It has been bought
by the Order to which I belong."
"Isn't he going to take us in?" asked the Countess, dolefully.
"I'm afraid not," said Terry, "but I'll see what I can do."
Ah, that "seeing what he could do!" I knew it of old, for Terry's own
brother is the only person I ever met who could resist him if he stooped to
wheedle. Italian is a language which lends itself to wheedling, too; and
though the good monk demurred at first, shook his head, and even flung up
his hands with a despairing protest, he weakened at last, even as the
douanier had weakened.
"He says if we'd come to-morrow, it would have been impossible to
admit us," translated Terry for the ladies' benefit. "The lease is going to be
signed then. Until that's done the house isn't actually a monastery, so he can
strain a point and take us in, rather than the ladies should have to travel
further so late at night. I don't suppose we shall find very luxurious
accommodation, but—"
"It will be perfectly lovely," broke in Beechy, "and Maida, anyhow, will
feel quite at home."
"He won't accept payment, that's the worst of it," said Terry, "for we shall
make the poor man, who is all alone, a good deal of bother. Still, I shall
offer something for the charities of his Order, and he can't refuse that."
We filed into the hall, lit only by the lantern in our host's hand, and "Kid,
Kidder, and Kiddest," charmed with the adventure, were delightfully ready
to be pleased with everything. We seemed to have walked nearly half a

kilometre before we were shown into small, bare rooms, furnished only
with necessaries, but spotlessly clean. Then beds had to be made and water
brought. Every one worked except the Prince, and every one, with the same
exception, forgot to be tired and ceased to be cold in the pleasure of the
queer midnight picnic. We had not dared hope for anything to eat, but when
our host proposed a meal of boiled eggs, bread, and wine, the good man
was well-nigh startled by the enthusiastic acceptance of his guests.
A small room containing a table, and a pile of chairs against the wall, was
chosen for the banquet. Terry and Maida laid the table with the dishes from
the tea-basket, and a few more found in neighbouring cupboards. Beechy
boiled the eggs while our host unearthed the wine; the Countess cut slices
of hard, brown bread, and I added butter in little hillocks.
Then we ate and drank; and never was a meal so good. We seemed to
have known each ether a long time, and already we had common jokes
connected with our past—that past which had been the present this
morning. It was after one o'clock when it occurred to us that it was bedtime;
and as at last the three ladies flitted away down the dim corridor, Terry and
I, watching them, saw that something flitted after.
It was the little black dog of Airole.

PART II

TOLD BY BEECHY KIDDER

VII

A CHAPTER OF CHILDISHNESS

When I waked up that morning in the old monastery at San Dalmazzo, if
that's the way to call it, and especially to spell it, I really thought for a few
minutes that I must be dreaming. "There's no good getting up," I thought,
"for if I do I shall somnambulize, and maybe break my rather pleasing
nose." Once, when I was a little girl, I fell downstairs when I was asleep,
and made one of my front teeth come out. It was a front tooth, and Mamma
had promised me five dollars if I'd have it pulled; so that was money in my
pocket. But I haven't got any teeth to sell for five dollars now, and it's well
to be careful. Accordingly I just lay still in that funny little iron bed, saying,
"Beechy Kidder, is this you?"
Perhaps it was because of all those bewildering impressions the day
before, or perhaps it was from having been so dead asleep that I felt exactly
as if I were no relation to myself. Anyhow, that was the way I did feel, and I
began to be awfully afraid I should wake up back in Denver months ago,
before anything had happened, or seemed likely ever to happen.
When I thought of Mamma and myself, as we used to be, I grew almost
sure that the things hadn't happened, because they didn't seem the kind of
things that could possibly happen to us.
Why, I didn't even need to shut my eyes to see our Denver house, for it
was so much more real than any other house I'd been in, or dreamed I'd
been in since, and especially more real than that tiny, whitewashed room at
the monastery with a green curtain of vines hanging over the window.

A square, stone house, with a piazza in front (only people out of America
are so stupid, they don't know what I mean when I say "piazza"); about six
feet of yard with some grass and flowers. Me at school; Mamma reading
novels with one eye, and darning papa's stockings with the other. My
goodness, what a different Mamma! When I thought of the difference, I was
surer than ever that I must be dreaming her as she is now, and I had half a
mind to go and peek into the next room to look, and risk falling down-stairs
bang into realities and Denver.
Would she have smooth, straight dark hair with a few threads of grey, all
streaked back flat to her head to please papa; or would she have lovely
auburn waves done on a frame, with a curl draped over her forehead?
Would her complexion be just as nice, comfortable, motherly sort of
complexion, of no particular colour; or would it be pink and white like rose-
leaves floating in cream? Would she have the kind of figure to fit the corsets
you can pick up at any shop, ready made for fifty-nine and a half cents, and
the dresses Miss Pettingill makes for ten dollars, with the front breadth
shorter than the back? Or would she go in at the waist like an hour-glass
and out like an hour-glass, to fit three hundred-franc stays in Paris, and
dresses that would be tight for me?
Poor Mamma! I'd made lots of fun of her these last few months, if they
were real months, I said to myself; and if more real months of that kind
should come, I'd probably make lots of fun of her again. I am like that; I
can't help it. I suppose it's what Papa used to call his "originality," and
Mamma his "cantankerousness," coming out in me. But lying there in the
narrow bed, with the dream-dawn fluttering little pale wings at the window,
I seemed suddenly to understand how hard everything had been for her.
At some minutes, on some days, you do understand people with a queer
kind of clearness, almost as if you had created them yourself—even people
that you turn up your nose at, and think silly or uninteresting at other times,
when your senses aren't sharpened in that magic sort of way. My "God-
days," are what I call those strange days when I can sympathize with every
one as if I'd known their whole history and all their troubles and thoughts
and struggles, ever since they were born. I call them that, not to be
irreverent, but because I suppose God always feels so; and the little spark of
Him that's in every human being—even in a naughty, pert thing like me—

comes out in us more on some days than on others, though only for a few
minutes at a stretch even then.
Well, my spark burned up quite brightly for a little while in the dawn, as I
was thinking of Mamma.
I don't suppose she could ever have been in love with Papa. I guess she
must have married him because her parents were poor, or because she was
too kind hearted to say no. Anyway, it must have been horrid for her to
know that he was rich enough to let her do anything she liked, but wouldn't
let her do anything nice, because he was a Consistent Democrat, and didn't
believe in show or "tomfoolery."
I'm sure I couldn't explain what a Consistent Democrat really is; but
Papa's idea of being it was to scorn "society people," not to have pretty
clothes or many servants, to look plain and speak plainly, always to tell the
whole truth, especially if you would hurt anybody's feelings by doing so,
and not to spend much money except on uninteresting books
.
Mamma would have loved better than anything to be a society leader, and
have her name appear often in the papers, like other ladies in Denver who,
she used to tell me, didn't come from half as good family as she did. But
Papa wouldn't let her go out much, and she didn't know any of the people
she wanted to know—only quite common ones whose husbands kept stores
or had other businesses which she didn't consider refined. I'm afraid I was
never much comfort to poor Mamma either. That cantankerousness of mine
which makes me see how funny people and things are, always came
between us, and I expect it always will. I must have been born old.
Her only real pleasure was reading novels on the sly, all about smart
society and the aristocracy, but especially English aristocracy. She simply
revelled in such stories; and when Papa died suddenly without time to tie up
his money so as to force Mamma to go on doing what he wanted, and not
what she wanted, all the rest of her life, the first thing that occurred to her
was how to make up for lost time.
"We'll travel in Europe for a year or two," she said to me, "and when we
come back we'll just show Denver society people that we're somebody."

That was all she thought of in the beginning, but when we'd gone East to
Chicago for a change, and were staying at a big hotel there, a new idea
came into her head. Partly it was from seeing so many smart-looking young
women having a good time every minute of their lives, and feeling what
was the use of being free to enjoy herself at last, with plenty of money,
when she was dowdy and not so very young any more? (I could tell just
what was in her mind by the wistful way she looked at gorgeous ladies who
had the air of owning the world, with a fence around it.) And partly it was
seeing an advertisement in a newspaper.
Mamma didn't mention the advertisement to me at first. But when she'd
been away one morning alone on a secret errand she stammered and
fidgetted a little, and said she had something to explain to me. Then it all
came out.
She'd been to call on a wonderful French madame who could make a
woman of thirty-eight (that's Mamma's Bible age) look twenty-five, and she
hoped I wouldn't lose respect for her as my mother or think her frivolous
and horrid if she put herself into the madame's hands for a few weeks. I
couldn't help laughing, but Mamma cried, and said that she'd never had a
real good time since she was grown up. She did long to have one at last,
very much, if only I'd let her do it in peace.
I stopped laughing and almost cried, myself; but I didn't let her see that I
wanted to. Instead, I asked what would be the sense of looking twenty-five,
anyhow, when everybody would know she must be more, with a daughter
going on seventeen.
Mamma hadn't thought of that. She seemed years older than ever for a
minute; and then she put her hand in mine. Hers was as cold as ice. "Would
you mind going back a little, darling?" she asked. "It would be so kind and
sweet of you, and it would make all the difference to me."
"Going back?" I repeated. "Whatever do you mean?"
It made her dreadfully nervous to explain, because she was afraid I'd
poke fun at her, but she did get out the idea finally. "Going back" was to
bring on my second childhood prematurely. Thirteen was a nice age, she

thought, because many girls get their full growth then; and if I wasn't more
than thirteen she could begin life over again at twenty-nine.
"What, let down my hair and wear my dresses short?" I asked.
She admitted that was what I'd have to do.
I thought for a whole minute, and at last I just couldn't bear to disappoint
her. But all the same, I reminded myself, I might as well make a good
bargain while I was about it.
"If I do what you want," said I, "you'll have to be mighty nice to me. I
must be given my way about important things. If you ever refuse to do what
I like, after I've done so much for you, I'll just turn up my hair and put on a
long frock. Then everybody'll see how old I am."
She would have promised anything, I guess; and that very afternoon she
gave me three lovely rings, and a ducky little bracelet-watch, when we were
out shopping for short clothes and babyfied hats. Soon we moved away
from that hotel to one on the north side, where nobody had seen us; and the
first thing I knew, I was a little girl again.
It certainly was fun. To really appreciate being a child, you ought to have
been grown up in another state of existence, and remember your sensations.
It was something like that with me, and my life was almost as good as a
play. I could say and do dreadfully naughty things, which would have been
outrageous for a grown-up young lady of nearly seventeen. And didn't I do
them all? I never missed a single chance, and I flatter myself that I haven't
since.
The French madame made a real work of art of Mamma. The progress
was lovely to watch. She kept herself shut up in her room all day,
pretending to be an invalid, and drove out in a veil to the madame's. Then,
when she was finished, we went right away from Chicago to New York,
where we meant to stay for a while till we sailed for Europe.
Mamma hadn't been East before, since she was a girl of twenty, for that
was when she married Papa, and he took her to live in Denver. We bought
lots of beautiful things in New York, and Mamma enjoyed herself so much,

being pretty and having people stare at her, that she was almost sick from
excitement.
When we'd seen all the sights and were tired of shopping, she
remembered that she'd got a niece staying in the country not far away, on
the Hudson River. I'd heard Mamma speak of her sister, who, when
seventeen, had married a Savant (whatever that is), and had gone to
California soon afterwards, because she was delicate. But evidently the
change hadn't done her much good, because she died when her baby was
born. The Savant went on living, but he couldn't love his daughter properly,
as she'd been the cause of her mother's death. Besides, he wasn't the kind of
man to understand children, so when Madeleine was nine or ten, he sent her
to a school—a very queer school. It was kept by a Sisterhood; not nuns
exactly, because they were Protestants, but almost as good or as bad; and an
elderly female cousin of the Savant's was the head of the institution.
There Madeleine Destrey had been ever since, though Mamma said she
must be nineteen or twenty; and now her father was dead. That news had
been sent to Mamma months before we left Denver, but as she and the
Savant had written to each other only about once every five or six years, it
hadn't affected her much. However, she thought it would be nice to go and
see Madeleine, and I thought so too.
It was a short journey in the train, and the place where the Sisterhood live
is perfectly lovely, the most beautiful I ever saw, with quantities of great
trees on a flowery lawn sloping down to the river.
I was wondering what my cousin would be like—the only cousin I've got
in the world; and though Mamma said she must be pretty, if she was
anything like her mother, I didn't expect her to be half as pretty as she really
is.
We surprised her as much as she did us, for naturally she expected
Mamma to be like other aunts, which she isn't at all—now; and evidently
she considered me a curiosity. But she was very sweet, and when she found
Mamma didn't want to be called Aunt Kathryn, she tried hard always to
"Kitty" her.

We only intended to spend the day, but it turned out that the time of our
visit was rather critical for Maida. She was in the act of having her
twentieth birthday; and it seemed that in her father's will he had "stipulated"
(that's the word the cousin-Mother-Superior used) that his daughter should
be sent to travel in Europe when she was twenty, for a whole year.
The reason of the stipulation was, that though he didn't care for Maida as
most fathers care for their children, he was a very just man, and was afraid,
after living so long in the Sisterhood his daughter might wish to join the
Order, without knowing enough about the outside world to make up her
mind whether it truly was her vocation for good and all. That was why she
was to go to Europe; for when you're twenty-one you can become a novice
in the Sisterhood, if you like.
The Mother Superior didn't really want Maida to go one bit. It was easy
to see her anxiety to have the "dear child safe in the fold." But Maida wasn't
to inherit a penny of her father's money if she didn't obey his will, which
wouldn't suit the Sisterhood at all; so the Mother had to hustle round and
think how to pack Maida off for the year.
When we happened to arrive on the scene, she thought we were like
Moses's ram caught in the bushes. She told Mamma the whole story—(a
ramrod of a lady with a white face, a white dress, and a long, floating white
veil, she was) asking right out if we'd take Maida with us to Europe.
Mamma didn't like the idea of being chaperon for such a girl as Maida;
but it was her own sister's daughter, and Mamma is as good-natured as a
Mellin's Food Baby in a magazine, though she gets into little tempers
sometimes. So she said, "Yes," and a fort-night later we all three sailed on a
huge German steamer for Cherbourg. "At least, that's what we did in the
'dream,'" I reminded myself, when I had got so far in my thoughts, lying in
the monastery bed. And by that time the light was so clear in the tiny white
room, that there was no longer any doubt about it, I really was awake. I was
dear little thirteen-year-old Beechy Kidder, who wasn't telling fibs about her
age, because she was thirteen, and was it anybody's business if she were
something more besides?

VIII

A CHAPTER OF PLAYING DOLLS

I looked at my bracelet-watch, which I had tucked under my pillow last
night. It wasn't quite six o'clock, and we hadn't gone to bed till after one;
but I knew I couldn't sleep any more, and life seemed so interesting that I
thought I might as well get up to see what would come next.
The water-pitcher didn't hold much more than a quart, but I took the best
bath I could, dressed, and decided to find out what the monastery grounds
were like. We were not to be called till half-past seven, and it was arranged
that we should start at nine, so there was an hour and a half to spare. I
wondered whether I should wake Maida, and get her to go with me, but
somehow I wasn't in the mood for Maida. I was afraid that, being in a
monastery, she would be thinking of her precious Sisterhood and wanting to
hurry back as fast as she could. She does mean to join when her year is up, I
know, which is so silly of her, when the world's such a nice place; and it
nearly gives me nervous prostration to hear her talk about it. Not that she
often does; but it's bad enough to see it in her eyes.
Maida is a perfect dear, much too good for us, and she always knows the
proper etiquetical thing to do when Mamma and I are wobbly; but she is
such an edelweiss that I'm always being tempted to claw her down from her
high white crags and then regretting it afterwards. Mamma gets cross with
her too, when she's particularly exalted, but we both love her dearly; and we
ought to, for she's always doing something sweet for us. Only she's a great
deal too humble. I suppose it's the thing to be like that in a Sisterhood, but
Mamma and I aren't a Sisterhood, and the sooner Maida realizes that there's
such a place as the world, the better it will be for her.
So I didn't wake Maida, but went tiptoeing out into the long corridor, and
got lost several times looking for the way out of doors.
At last I was in the garden, though, and it was very quaint and pretty,
with unexpected nooks, old, moss-covered stone seats, and a sundial that
you'd pay hundreds of dollars for in America. Staring up at the house I
thought a window-shutter moved; but I didn't attach any importance to that
until, after I'd crossed several small bridges and discovered a kind of island

with the river rushing by on both sides, I saw Prince Dalmar-Kalm coming
towards me.
I was sitting on a bench on the little green island, where I pretended to be
gazing down at the water and not to see him till he was close by; for I was
in hope that he wouldn't notice me in my grey dress among the trees. I don't
believe the Prince's best friends would call him an early morning man. He's
the kind that oughtn't to be out before lunch, and he goes especially well
with gaslight or electricity. I felt sure he'd be unbearable before breakfast—
either his breakfast or mine.
"It's a pity," I thought, "that I can't run down as rapidly from the age of
thirteen to the age of one as I have from seventeen to thirteen. When the
Prince found me. I should be sitting on the grass playing with dandelions
and saying. 'Da, da?' which would disgust him so much that he'd stalk away
and leave me in peace to grow up in time for breakfast."
But even a child must draw the line somewhere; and presently the Prince
said "Good-morning" (so nicely that I thought he must have had a cracker
or two in his pocket), asking if he might sit by me on the bench.
"I was just going in to wake Mamma," I replied, and I wondered whether,
if I jumped up suddenly, his end of the bench would go down and tilt him
into the river. It would have been fun to see His Highness become His
Lowness, and to tell Sir Ralph Moray afterwards, but just as I was on the
point of making a spring, he remarked that he had seen me come out, and
followed for a particular reason. If I tumbled him into the water, I might
never hear that reason; so seventeen-year-old curiosity overcame thirteen-
year-old love of mischief, and I sat still.
"As you have only just come out, I don't see why you should be just
going in, unless it is to get away from me," said the Prince, "and I should be
sorry to think that, because you are such a dear little girl, and I am very
fond of you."
"So was Papa," said I, with my best twelve-and-a-half-year-old
expression.
"But I am not quite ancient enough to be your Papa," replied the Prince,
"so you need not name us together like that."

"Aren't you?" I asked, with big eyes.
"Well, that depends on how old you are, my dear."
"I'm too old for you to call your dear, unless you are old enough to be my
Papa," was the sage retort of Baby Beechy.
"I'm over thirty," said the Prince.
"Yes, I know," said I. "I found the Almanach de Gotha on the table of our
hotel at Cap Martin, and you were in it."
"Naturally," said the Prince, but he got rather red, as people always do
when they find out that you know just how far over thirty they've really
gone. "But I'm not married," he went on, "therefore you cannot think of me
as of your papa."
"I don't think of you much as anything," said I. "I'm too busy."
"Too busy! Doing what?"
"Playing dolls," I explained.
"I wish you were a little older," said the Prince, with a good imitation of a
sigh. "Ah, why haven't you a few years more?"
"You might ask Mamma," I replied. "But then, if I had, she would have
more too wouldn't she?"
"That would be a pity. She is charming as she is. She must have married
when almost a child."
"Did you come out here at this time of the morning to ask me about
Mamma's marriage?" I threw at him. "Because, if that was your reason, I'd
rather go in to my dolls."
"No, no," protested the Prince, in a hurry. "I came to talk about yourself."
I began to feel an attack of giggles coming on, but I stopped them by
holding my breath, as you do for hiccoughs, and thinking about Job, which,
if you can do it soon and solemnly enough, is quite a good preventive. I
knew now exactly why Prince Dalmar-Kalm had dashed on his clothes at

sight of me and come into the garden on an empty stomach. He had
thought, if he could get me all alone for half an hour (which he'd often tried
to do and never succeeded) he could find out a lot of things that he would
like to know. Perhaps he felt it was impossible for anybody to be as young
as I seem, so that was what he wanted to find out about first. If I wasn't, he
would flirt; if I was, he would merely pump.
There wasn't much time to decide on a "course of action," as Mamma's
lawyer in Denver says; but I put on my thinking-cap and tied it tight under
my chin for a minute. "There's more fun to be had in playing with him than
with dolls," I said to myself, "if I set about it in the right way. But what is
the right way? I can't be bothered having him for my doll, because he'd take
up too much time. Shall I give him to Maida? No, I'll lend him to Mamma
to play with, so long as she plays the way I want her to, and doesn't get in
earnest."
"What are you anxious to say about me that can't wait till breakfast?" I
asked.
"Those men will be at breakfast," said he. "They are in the position of
your couriers, yet they put themselves forward, as if on an equality with me.
I do not find that conducive to conversation."
"Mamma asked Maida yesterday whether it was better to be an Austrian
prince, or an English baronet?" said I. "Sir Ralph Moray's a baronet."
"So he says," sneered the Prince.
"Oh, he is. Mamma looked him out in Burke the very day I found you
were thirty-nine in the Almanach de Gotha."
"Anybody can be a baronet. That is nothing. It is a mere word."
"It's in three syllables, and 'prince' is only in one. Besides, Austrians are
foreigners, and Englishmen aren't."
"Is that what Miss Destrey said to your Mamma?"
"No, because Mamma's a foreign Countess now, and it might have hurt
her feelings. Maida said she felt more at home with a plain mister—like Mr.
Barrymore, for instance; only he's far from plain."

"You consider him handsome?"
"Oh, yes, we all do."
"But I think you have not known him and Sir Ralph Moray for long. Your
Mamma has not mentioned how she met them, but from one or two things
that have been dropped, I feel sure they are in her employ—that she has
hired them to take you about in their very inadequate car; is it not so?"
"I'll ask Mamma and tell you what she says, if you'd like me to," I
replied.
"No, no, dear child, you are too literal. It is your one fault. And I find that
you are all three too trusting of strangers. It is a beautiful quality, but it must
not be carried too far. Will you not let me be your friend, Miss Beechy, and
come to me for advice? I should be delighted to give it, for you know what
an interest I take in all connected with you. There! Now you have heard
what I followed you out especially to say. I hoped that this would be a
chance to establish a confidential relationship between us. Voulez-vous, ma
chère petite?"
"What kind of a relationship shall we establish, exactly?" I asked. "You
say you don't want to be my Papa."
"If I were your Papa, I should be dead."
"If you were my brother, and the age you are now, Mamma might as well
be dead."
"Ah, I would not be your brother on any consideration. Not even your
step-brother; though some step-relationships are delightful. But your
Mamma is too charming—you are all too charming, for my peace of mind.
I do not know how I lived before I met you."
I thought that the money-lenders perhaps knew; but there are some things
even little Beechy can't say.
"Your Mamma must have great responsibilities for so young a woman,"
he went on, while I pruned and prismed. "With her great fortune, and no
one to guard her, she must often feel the weight of her burden too heavy for
one pair of shoulders."

"One can always spend one's fortune, and so get rid of the burden, if it's
too big," said I.
The Prince looked horrified. "Surely she is more wise than that?" he
exclaimed.
"She hasn't spent it all yet, anyhow," I said.
"Are you not anxious lest, if your Mamma is extravagant, she may throw
away your fortune as well as her own; or did your Papa think of that danger,
and make you quite secure?"
"I guess I shall have a little something left, no matter what happens," I
admitted.
"Then your Papa was thoughtful for you. But was he also jealous for
himself? Had I been the husband of so fascinating a woman as your
Mamma, I would have put into my will a clause that, if she married again,
she must forfeit everything. But it may be that Americans do not hug their
jealousy in the grave."
"I can't imagine poor Papa hugging anything," I said. "I never heard that
he objected to Mamma marrying again. Anyhow, she's had several offers
already."
"She should choose a man of title for her second husband," said the
Prince, very pleased with the way the pump was working.
"Maybe she will," I answered.
He started slightly.
"It should be a title worth having," he said, "and a man fitted to bear it,
not a paltry upstart whose father was perhaps a tradesman. You, Miss
Beechy, must watch over your dear Mamma and rescue her from fortune
hunters. I will help. And I will protect you, also. As for Miss Destrey,
beautiful as she is, I feel that she is safe from unworthy persons who seek a
woman only for her money. Her face is her fortune, n'est-ce pas?"
"Well, it's fortune enough for any girl," said I, thinking again of Job and
all the other really solemn characters in the Old Testament as hard as ever I

could.
The Prince sighed, genuinely this time, as if my answer had confirmed
his worst suspicions. "He will be nice to Mamma, now," said little Beechy
to big Beechy. "No more vacillating. He'll come straight to business." And
promising myself some fun, I got up from the bench so cautiously that the
poor river was cheated of a victim. "Now I must go in," I exclaimed.
"Good-bye, Prince. Let me see; what are we to each other?"
"Confidants," he informed me. "You are to come to me with every
difficulty. But one more word before we part, dear child. Be on your guard,
and warn your Mamma to be on hers, with those two adventurers. Perhaps,
also, you had better warn Miss Destrey. Who knows how unscrupulous the
pair might be? And unfortunately, owing to the regrettable arrangements at
present existing, I cannot always be at hand to watch over you all."
"Owing a little to your automobile too, maybe," said I. "By the way, what
is its state of health?"
"There has been no room for the automobile in my thoughts," said the
Prince, with a cooled-down step-fatherly smile. "But I have no doubt it will
be in good marching order by the time it is wanted, as my chauffeur was to
rise at four, knock up a mechanic at some shop in the village, and make the
new change-speed lever which was broken yesterday. If you are determined
to leave me so soon, I will console myself by finding Joseph and seeing
how he is getting on."
We walked together towards the house, which had opened several of its
green eyelids now, and at the mouth of a sort of stucco tunnel which led to
the door there was Joseph himself—a piteous, dishevelled Joseph, looking
as if birds had built nests on him and spiders had woven webs round him for
years.
"Well," exclaimed the Prince with the air of one warding off a blow.
"What has happened? Have you burnt my automobile, or are you always
like this when you get up early?"
"I am not an incendiary, Your Highness," said Joseph, in his precise
French, which it's easy to understand, because when he wishes to be
dignified he speaks slowly. "I do not know what I am like, unless it is a

wreck, in which case I resemble your automobile. As you left her last night,
so she is now, and so she is likely to remain, unless the gentlemen of the
other car will have the beneficence to pull her up a still further and more
violent hill to the village of Tenda. There finds himself the only mechanic
within fifty miles."
"I engaged you as a mechanic!" cried the Prince
.
"But not as a workshop, Your Highness. That I am not and shall not be
this side of Paradise. And it is a workshop that we must have."
"Do not let me keep you, Miss Beechy," said the Prince, "if you wish to
go to your Mamma. This little difficulty will arrange itself."
I adore rows, and I should have liked to stay; but I couldn't think of any
excuse, so I skipped into the house, and almost telescoped (as they say of
railroad trains) with the nice monk, who was talking to Maida in the hall.
I supposed she was telling him about the Sisters, but she was quite
indignant at the suggestion, and said she had been asking if we could have
breakfast in the garden. The monk had given his consent, and she had
intended to have everything arranged out doors, as a surprise, by the time
we all came down.
"Aunt Kathryn is up; I've been doing her hair," explained Maida, "but we
didn't hear a sound from your room, so we decided not to disturb you. What
have you been about, you weird child?"
"Playing dolls," said I, and ran off to help Mamma put on her
complexion.
But it was on already, all except the icing. I confessed the Prince to her,
and she looked at me sharply. "Don't forget that you're a little girl now,
Beechy," she reminded me. "What were you talking about?"
"You and my other dolls, Mamma," said I. "Even when I was seventeen I
never flirted fasting."
"What did you say about me, dearest?"

"Oh, it was the Prince who said things about you. You can have him to
play with, if you want to."
"Darling, you shouldn't talk of playing. This is a very serious
consideration," said Mamma. "I never heard much about Austrians at home.
Most foreigners there were Germans, which made one think of beer and
sausages. I do wonder what standing an Austrian Prince would have in
Denver? Should you suppose he would be preferred to—to persons of less
exalted rank who were—who were not quite so foreign?"
"Do the Prince and Sir Ralph Moray intend to go over as samples?" I
asked sweetly, but Mamma only simpered, and as a self-respecting child I
cannot approve of a parent's simpering.
"I wish you wouldn't be silly, Beechy," she said. "It is a step, being a
Countess, but it is not enough."
"You mean, the more crowns you have, the more crowns you want."
"I mean nothing of the sort," snapped Mamma, "but I have some
ambition, otherwise what would have been the good of coming to Europe?
And if one gets opportunities, it would be sinful to neglect them. Only—
one wants to be sure that one has taken the best."
"There they all three are, in the yard," I remarked, pointing out of the
window at the Opportunities, who were discoursing earnestly with Joseph.
"Of course, I'm too young now to judge of such matters, but if it was I who
had to choose—"
"Well?"
"I'd toss up a penny, and whichever side came, I'd take—"
"Yes?"
"Mr. Barrymore."
"Mr. Barrymore! But he has no title! I might as well have stayed in
America."
"I said that, because I think he'd be the hardest to get. The other two—"

"What about them?"
"Well, you don't need to decide between them yet. Just wait till we've
travelled a little further, and see whether you come across anything better
worth having."
"Oh, Beechy, I never know whether you're poking fun at me or not,"
sighed poor Mamma, so forlornly that I was sorry—for a whole minute—
that I'd been born wicked; and I tied her tulle in a lovely bow at the back of
her neck, to make up.

IX

A CHAPTER OF REVELATIONS

Maida really was the prettiest thing ever created, when I looked down at
her from Mamma's window, as she arranged flowers and cups and saucers
on the table which the monk had carried out for her, into the garden. He had
quite a gallant air, in his innocent way, as if he were an old beau, instead of
a monk, and his poor face seemed to fall when Mamma's untitled
Opportunity—all unconscious that he was an Opportunity—saw Maida, left
Joseph, and sprang to her assistance. But no wonder those two men, so
different one from the other, found the same joy in waiting on her! The
morning sun sprinkled gold on her hair, and made her fair skin look milky
white, like pearl; then, when she would pass under the arbour of trees, the
shadows threw a glimmering veil over her, and turned her into a mermaid
deep down in the green light of the sea.
I don't believe our glorified chauffeur would have stopped talking motor
talk and run about with dishes for Mamma or me as he did for Maida. And I
wonder if one of us had adopted that little scarecrow of a black dog,
whether he would have given it a bath in the fountain and dried it with his
pocket-handkerchief?
That is often the way. If a girl has set her face against marriage and
would rather be good to the poor than flirt, every man she's reluctantly
forced to meet promptly falls in love with her, while all the thoroughly nice,
normal female things like Mamma and me have to take a back seat.

By the way, Mamma and I are literally in the back seat on this
automobile trip; but my name isn't Beechy Kidder if it's dull for any length
of time.
However, this reflection is only a parenthesis in the midst of breakfast;
for we all had breakfast together in the monastery garden and were as "gay
as grigs." (N.B.—Some kind of animal for which Sir Ralph is responsible.)
The Prince was nice to the two "adventurers," because he didn't want
them to repent their promise to tow his car up to Tenda; Maida was nice to
everybody, because a monastery was next best to a convent; Mr. Barrymore
was nice to her dog; Sir Ralph and the Prince were both nice to Mamma,
and Breakfast (I spell it with a capital to make it more important) was nice
to the poor little girl who would have had nobody to play with, if each one
hadn't been a dancing doll of hers without realizing it.
The monk wouldn't charge us a cent for our board, so we had
unconsciously been paying him a visit all the time, though paying nothing
else, and the Prince had actually found fault with the coffee!
However, Sir Ralph gave him a donation for the charities of the house,
which he accepted, so we could bid him good-bye without feeling like
tramps who had stolen a lodging in somebody's barn.
As our automobile had to drag the Prince's, and it appeared that Tenda
was less than three miles away, Maida and I decided to walk. Sir Ralph
walked with us, and the Prince looked as if he would like to, but after our
talk before breakfast, he naturally felt that his place was by the side of
Mamma. She comes down two inches in common-sense walking shoes, so
of course hills are not for her, now that she's trying to be as beautiful as she
feels; but the Prince persuaded her to sit in the tonneau of his car, as it
crawled up the steep white road behind Mr. Barrymore and the Panhard, so
slowly that he could pace beside her. Sir Ralph talked to Maida, as we three
trailed after the two motors, and I began to wonder if I hadn't been a little
too strenuous in making the Prince entirely over to Mamma.
Not that I wanted him personally, but I did want some one to want me, so
presently I pretended to be tired, and running after the toiling cars, asked

Mr. Barrymore whether my weight would make much difference if I sat by
him.
"No more than a feather," said he, with such a delightful smile that I
wished myself back at seventeen again, so that he might not talk "down" to
me in that condescending, uncomfortable way that grown-ups think
themselves obliged to use when they're entertaining children. If he had only
known it, I should have been quite equal to entertaining him; but I was a
victim to my pigtails and six inches of black silk stocking.
"Do you like motoring?" he asked, conscientiously.
"Yes," said I. "And it is a fine day. And I would rather travel than go to
school. And I admire Europe almost as much as America So you needn't
bother about asking me those questions. You can begin right now with
something you would really like to ask."
He laughed. "As you're so fastidious, I'd better consider a little," he said.
"Maybe it would save time if I should suggest some subjects," said I, "for
I suppose we'll be at Tenda soon, even though the Prince's car is as big as a
house, and this hill is as steep as the side of one. Would you like to ask me
about Mamma's Past?"
"Good gracious, what do you take me for?" exclaimed Mr. Barrymore.
"I haven't decided yet," I replied, "though the Prince has talked to me
quite a good deal about you."
"Has he, indeed? What does he know about me?" and our magnificent
chauffeur turned suddenly so red under his nice dark skin, that I couldn't
help wondering if, by any chance, the Prince were the least little bit right
about his being an adventurer. I almost hoped he was, for it would make
things so much more romantic. I felt like saying, "Don't mind me, my dear
young sir. If you've anything to conceal about yourself, I shall like you all
the better." But what I really did say was that the Prince seemed much more
interested in people's Pasts than he—Mr. Barrymore—appeared to be.
"My future is more interesting to me than my own past, or any one
else's," he retorted. But I thought that he looked a little troubled, as if he

were racking his brain for what the Prince could have let out, and was too
proud or obstinate to ask.
"You are selfish," I said. "Then there's no use my trying to make this ride
pleasant for you, by telling you anecdotes of my past—or Maida's."
At this his profile changed. I can't say his "face" because he was steering
a great deal more than was flattering to me, or necessary in going up hill.
Would the fish bite at that last tempting morsel of bait? I wondered. The
Prince would have snapped at it; but though Mr. Barrymore's title is only
that of chauffeur, he is more of a gentleman in his little finger than the
Prince in his whole body. He may be an adventurer, but anyhow he isn't the
kind who pumps naughty little girls about their grown-up relations' affairs.
"I am only concerned with yours and Miss Destrey's present," he said
after a minute.
"But the present so soon becomes the past, doesn't it? There's never more
than just a minute of the present, really, if you come to look at it in that way,
all the rest is past and future."
"Never mind," said Mr. Barrymore. "You've got more future than any of
the party."
"And poor Maida has less."
He forgot about his old steering-wheel for part of a second, and gave me
such a glance that I knew I had him on my hook this time.
"Why do you say that?" he asked, quite sharply.
"Oh, you are interested in somebody's future beside your own then?"
"Who could help being—in hers?"
"You look as if you thought I meant she was dying of a decline," said I.
"It isn't quite as bad as that, but—well, beautiful as Maida is I wouldn't
change places with her, unless I could change souls as well. It would be a
good deal better for Maida in this world if she could have mine, though just
the opposite in the next."

"Such talk clouds the sunshine," said Mr. Barrymore, "even for a stranger
like me, when you prophesy gloomy mysteries for one who deserves only
happiness. You said something of the sort to Moray yesterday. He told me,
but I was in hope that you had been joking."
"No," said I. "But I suppose Maida doesn't think the mysteries gloomy, or
she wouldn't 'embrace' them—if that's the right word for it. Mamma and I
imagined that coming to Europe would make her see differently perhaps,
but it hadn't the last time I asked her. She thought Paris lots of fun, but all
the same she was homesick for the stupid old convent where she was
brought up, and which she is going to let swallow her up in a year."
"Good Heavens, how terrible!" exclaimed our chauffeur, looking
tragically handsome. "Can nothing be done to save her? Couldn't you and
your mother induce her to change her mind?"
"We've tried," said I. "She saw a lot of society in Paris and when we were
at Cap Martin, but it gave her the sensation of having made a whole meal
on candy. Mamma has the idea of being presented to your Queen Alexandra
next spring, if she can manage it, and she told Maida that, if she'd tack on a
little piece to her year of travel, she might be done too, at the same time.
But Maida didn't seem to care particularly about it; and the society novels
that Mamma loves don't interest her a bit. Her favourite authors are
Shakspere and Thomas Hardy, and she reads Cooper and Sir Walter Scott.
So what can you do with a girl like that?"
"There are other things in life besides society."
"Mamma doesn't think so. I guess we've both done all we can. I'm afraid
poor Maida's doomed. But there's one comfort; she'll look perfectly
beautiful in the white robe and veil that her Sisterhood wears."
Mr. Barrymore gave a sort of groan. "What a vocation for a girl like
that!" he muttered, more to himself than to me, I imagine. "Something
desperate ought to be done."
"You might try to influence her," I said. "Not that I think it's likely you
could. But there's no harm in trying."

He didn't answer, but his face was as grave as if I had just invited him to
a funeral, and as even Job couldn't have kept my features from playing
(why shouldn't features play, if they can work?), I hastily sought the first
excuse for laughter I could find lying about loose.
"Oh, how funny!" I exclaimed. "Ha, ha, ha, how funny!"
"What is funny?" drearily demanded our chauffeur.
"Why, that queer little grey-brown town we're coming to. It looks for all
the world like an exhibition of patent beehives at a country fair."
"That is Tenda," volunteered Mr. Barrymore, still plunged in the depths
of gloom. "Your unfortunate namesake, poor Beatrice di Tenda, would have
been surprised to hear such a simile applied to her native town."
"Who was she?" I felt bound to inquire.
"I was telling Miss Destrey about her yesterday. She seemed interested.
Miss Destrey is very fond of history, isn't she?"
"Yes. But I'm tired talking of her now. I want to hear about the other
Beatrice. I suppose, if she was Italian, she was Bice too; but I'm sure her
friends never made her rhyme with mice."
"Her husband made her rhyme with murder. Did you never hear of the
opera of Beatrice di Tenda? Her story is one of the most romantic tragedies
in history. Well, there she was born, and there she lived as a beautiful young
woman in that old castle whose ruined tower soars so high above your
collection of beehives. When she was in her gentle prime of beauty, the
ferocious Duke Filippo Maria Visconti came riding here from Milan to
court the sweetest lady of her day. She didn't care for him, of course, but
young women of high rank had less choice in those times than they have in
these, and that was the way all the mischief began. She did love somebody
else, and the wicked Duke starved her to death in the tower of another old
castle. When we get to Pavia, which we shall pass on the way to Milan, I'll
show you and Miss Destrey where your namesake lived when she was a
duchess, and died when her duke would have her for a duchess no more, but
wanted somebody else. Poor Beatrice, I wonder if her spirit has ever been
present at the performance of the opera, and whether she approved."

"I hope she came with the man she loved, and sat in a box, and that the
duke was down in—in—"
"The pit," said Mr. Barrymore, laughing, and giving a glance back over
his shoulder for Maida and Sir Ralph, as he stopped the car in front of a
machinist's place. "Here we are, Joseph," he called to the Prince's chauffeur,
who was steering the broken car. "Now, how soon do you expect to finish
your job?"
"With proper tools, it should be no more than an hour's work," said
Joseph, jumping down.
"An hour? Why, I should have thought three would be more like it,"
exclaimed Mr. Barrymore.
"I am confident that I can do it in one all little hour," reiterated Joseph,
and for once the Prince regarded him benignly.
"Whatever Joseph's faults, he is an excellent mechanician," said His
Highness. "I did not intend to ask that you would wait, but if my car can be
ready so soon, perhaps you will have pity upon me, Countess, and let me
escort you to the castle while Joseph is working."
"Castle? I don't see any castle," returned Mamma, gazing around.
"What's left of it looks more like a walking-stick than a castle," said I,
pointing up to the tall, tapering finger of broken stone that almost touched
the clouds.
"Is Mamma's new property in Dalmatia as well perserved as that,
Prince?"
"You have always a joke ready, little Miss Beechy." His lips smiled; but
his eyes boxed my ears. Almost I felt them tingle; and suddenly I said to
myself, "Good gracious, Beechy Kidder, what if your dolls should take to
playing the game their own way, in spite of you, now you've set them
going! Where would you be then, I'd like to know?" And a horrid creep ran
down my spine, at the thought of Prince Dalmar-Kalm as a step-father.
Maybe he would shut me up in a tower and starve me to death, as the
wicked duke did with the other Beatrice; and it wouldn't comfort me a bit if

some one wrote an opera about my sufferings. But if he thinks he'll really
get Mamma, he little knows Me, that's all. We shall see what we shall see.

X

A CHAPTER OF THRILLS

The hotel at Tenda is apparently the one new thing in the town, and it is
new enough to more than make up for the oldness of everything else. We
went there to grumble because, after we had done the ruined castle (and it
had done Mamma), Joseph's "all little" hour threatened to lengthen itself
into at lest two of ordinary size.
Mr. Barrymore's eyebrows said, "I told you so," but his tongue said
nothing, which was nice of it; and the Prince did all the complaining as we
sat on perfectly new chairs, in a perfectly new parlour, with a smell of
perfectly new plaster in the air, and plu-perfectly old newspapers on the
table. According to him, Joseph was an absolutely unique villain, with a
combination of deceit, treachery, procrastination, laziness, and stupidity
mixed with low cunning, such as could not be paralleled in the history of
motor-men; and it was finally Mr. Barrymore who defended the poor absent
wretch.
"Really, you know," said he, "I don't think he's worse than other
chauffeurs. Curiously enough, the whole tribe seems to be alike in several
characteristics, and it would be an interesting study in motor lore to
discover whether they've all—by a singular coincidence—been born with
those peculiarities, whether they've been thrust upon them, or whether
they've achieved them!"
"Joseph never achieved anything," broke in the Prince.
"That disposes of one point of view, then," went on Mr. Barrymore.
"Anyhow, he's cut on an approved pattern. All the professional chauffeurs I
ever met have been utterly unable to calculate time or provide for future
emergencies. They're pessimists at the moment of an accident, and optimists
afterwards—until they find out their mistakes by gloomy experience,
which, however, seldom teaches them anything."

The Prince shrugged his shoulders in a superior way he has, and drawled,
"Well, you are better qualified to judge the brotherhood, than the rest of us,
at all events, my dear sir."
Mr. Barrymore got rather red, but he only laughed and answered, "Yes,
that's why I spoke in Joseph's defence. A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous
kind," while Maida looked as if she would like to set the new dog at His
Highness
.
The fact is she has got into her head that our handsome chauffeur is very
unfortunate; and when Maida is sorry for anybody or anything she'll stick
by that creature—man, woman, or dog—through thick and thin. And
funnier still, he is sorry for her. Well, it all comes into my game of dolls.
But I'm not sure that I shan't fall in love with him myself, and want to keep
him up my sleeve against the time when I'm seventeen again
.
The hotel clock was so new that it hadn't learned to go yet; and I never
saw people glance at their watches so much, even in the midst of a long
sermon, as we did, sitting on those new chairs in that new parlour. At last
Sir Ralph Moray proposed that we should have lunch; and we had it, with
delicious trout as new as the dish on which they came frizzling to the table.
While we were eating them Joseph was announced, and was ordered to
report himself in the dining-room. He seemed quite cheerful—for him.
"I came to tell Your Highness that I shall be able to finish in time to start
by four o'clock this afternoon," said he complacently.
Up sprang the Prince in a rage and began to shout French things which
must have been shocking, for Sir Ralph and Mr. Barrymore both scowled at
him till he superficially calmed down.
Joseph had either forgotten that he'd promised to be ready hours ago, or
else he didn't see why we should attach the least importance to a tiny
discrepancy like that.

In the midst of the argument, while the Prince's language got hot and his
fish cold, Mr. Barrymore turned to Mamma and proposed that we should
start directly after lunch, as most probably the Prince wouldn't get off till
next morning.
The prospect of staying all night at Tenda, with nothing to do but sit on
the new chairs till bed time, was too much even for Mamma's wish to please
Titled Opportunity Number One. She nervously elected to go on with Titled
Opportunity Number Two and his friend.
I thought that the Prince would be plunged in gloom by this decision,
even if he didn't try to break it. To my surprise, however, he not only made
no objection, but encouraged the idea. He wouldn't wish to sacrifice us on
the altar of his misfortune, he said. We must go on, dine at Cuneo, and he
would meet us at the hotel there, which he could easily do, as, when once
his automobile was itself again, it would travel at more than twice the speed
of ours. "Especially up hill," he added. "The landlord has told Joseph that
beyond Tenda the ascent is stupendous, nothing less than Alpine. You will
be obliged to travel at a snail's pace, even if you reach the top without every
passenger walking up the hill, which mounts, curve after curve, for miles."
Poor Mamma's face fell several inches. She had had enough walking up
hill for one day, as the Prince knew well, and no doubt he enjoyed the
chance of disgusting her with motoring in other people's automobiles. But
Mr. Barrymore's expression would have put spirit into a mock turtle. "I
know what the gradients are," he said, "and what we can do. To show that
I'm an exception which proves the rule I laid down for chauffeurs, I'm not
making any experiments without counting the cost. I hope we shall get to
Cuneo by tea-time, not dinner-time, and push on to Alessandria as a better
stopping-place for the night."
"Very well. In any case I shall expect to catch you up at Cuneo," said the
Prince, "and so, if you please, we will make a rendezvous at a certain
hotel."
Baedeker was produced, a hotel was selected, and half an hour later His
Highness was bidding us au revoir, as we settled ourselves in our luggage-
wreathed car, to leave the town of Beatrice and the dominating, file-on-end
shaped ruin.

We had all been up so early that it seemed as if the day were growing old,
but really it was only one o'clock, for we'd lunched at twelve, and all the
afternoon was before us in which to do, or not to do, our great climbing act.
Just to see how our gorgeous chauffeur would look, I asked if I mightn't
sit on the front seat for a change, because my feet had gone to sleep in the
tonneau yesterday. I half-expected that he would shuffle round for an
excuse to keep Maida; but with an immovable face he said that was for the
three ladies to arrange. Of course, Maida must have wanted to be in front,
but she is so horribly unselfish that she glories in sacrificing herself, so she
gave up as meekly as if she had been a lady's-maid, or a dormouse, and
naturally I felt a little brute; but I usually do feel a brute with Maida; she's
so much better than any one I ever saw that I can't help imposing on her,
and neither can Mamma. It's a waste of good material being so awfully
pretty as Maida, if you're never going to do anything for people to forgive.
Yesterday we had been too hot in our motor-coats till night came on. To-
day, when we had left Tenda a little way below, we opened our shawl-straps
and got out our fur stoles.
At first I thought that the Prince had only been trying to frighten us, and
make us wish we were in a big car like his, for the road went curving up as
gracefully and easily as a swan makes tracks in the water, and our
automobile hummed cheerfully to itself, forging steadily up. It was so nice
having nothing to drag that, by comparison with yesterday afternoon, we
moved like a ship under full sail; but suddenly the road reared up on its hind
feet and stood almost erect, as though it had been frightened by the huge
snow-capped mountains that all at once crowded round us. An icy wind
rushed down from the tops of the great white towers, as if with the
swooping wings of a giant bird, and it took our car's breath away.
Instead of humming it began to pant, and I noticed the difference at once.
If I'd been Maida, I should probably have been too polite to put questions
about the thing's behaviour, for fear Mr. Barrymore might think I hadn't
proper confidence in him; but being Beechy, with no convictions to live up
to, I promptly asked if anything was the matter.
"The car's only trying to tell me that she can't manage to spurt up on third
speed any more," said he. "I shall put on the second, and you'll hear what a

relief it gives to the motor."
It certainly was as if the automobile had gulped down a stimulant, and
revived in a second. But as we turned a shoulder of the mountain, coming in
sight of a railroad depôt, a high embankment, and a monstrous wall of
mountain with the sky for a ceiling, I couldn't help giving a little squeak.
"Is that a road?" I asked, pointing up to a network like a skein of silk
twisted in a hundred zigzags across the face of the mountain from bottom to
top. "Why, it's like the way up Jack's beanstalk. No sane automobile could
do it."
"Some could," said Mr. Barrymore, "but I dare say it's lucky for us that
ours hasn't got to. It's the old road, only used now to communicate with that
desolate fortress you see on the top shelf of the mountain, standing up there
on the sky-line like the ark on Ararat. All this country is tremendously
fortified by both the French and Italians, in case they should ever come to
loggerheads. Above us somewhere is a long tunnel burrowing into the col,
and the new road runs through that instead of over the summit."
"Bump!" went the car, as he finished his explanation, and then we began
to wade jerkily through a thick layer of loose stones that had been spread
over the road like hard butter over stale bread.
"Le corse" (that is what our landlord had called the cruel wind sweeping
down from the snow mountains) was hurling itself into our faces; our fat
rubber tyres were bouncing over the stones like baseballs, and I'd never
been so uncomfortable nor so perfectly happy in my life. I wished I were a
cat, so that I could purr, for purring has always struck me as the most
thorough way of expressing satisfaction. When other people are in
automobiles, and you are walking or jogging past with a pony, you glare
and think what insufferable vehicles they are; but when you're spinning, or
even jolting, along in one of them yourself, then you know that there's
nothing else in the world as well worth doing. I made a remark like that to
Mr. Barrymore, and he gave me such a friendly, appreciative look as he
said, "Have you discovered all this already?" that I decided at once to eat
my heart out with a vain love for him.

I haven't been really in love before since I was ten; so the sensation was
quite exciting, like picking up a lovely jewel on the street, which you aren't
sure won't be claimed by somebody else. I was trying to think what else I
could say to fascinate him when the car lost its breath again, and—"r-r-
retch" went in another speed.
"It's our 'first and last,'" said Mr. Barrymore. "Good old girl, she's going
to do it all right, though there's many a twenty-four horse-power car that
wouldn't rise to it. By Jove, this is a road—and a half. I believe, Ralph, that
you and I had better jump off and ease her a bit."
Mamma squeaked, and begged our chauffeur not to leave us to go up by
ourselves, or we should be over the awful precipice in an instant. But Mr.
Barrymore explained that he wasn't deserting the ship; and he walked
quickly along by the side of the car, through the bed of sharp stones,
keeping his hand always on the steering-wheel like a pilot guiding a vessel
among hidden rocks.
Maida would have been out too, in a flash, if Mr. Barrymore had let her,
but he told us all to sit still, so we did, happy (judging the others by myself)
in obeying him.
I hadn't supposed there could be such a road as this. If one hadn't had hot
and cold creeps in one's toes for fear the "good old girl" would slide back
down hill and vault into space with us in her lap, one would have been
struck dumb with admiration of its magnificence. As a matter of fact, we
were all three dumb as mutes, but it wasn't only admiration that paralysed
my tongue or Mamma's, I know, whatever caused the phenomenon with
Maida, who has no future worth clinging to.
As we toiled up, in spite of the stones that did their best to keep us back,
we simply hung on the breathing of the motor, as Mamma used to on mine
when I was small and indulged in croup. When she gasped, we gasped too;
when she seemed to falter, we involuntarily strained as if the working of our
muscles could aid hers. All our bodies sympathized with the efforts of her
body, which she was making for our sakes, dragging us up, up, into
wonderful white, shining spaces where it seemed that summer never had
been and never would dare to come.

The twisted skein of silk we had looked up to was turning into a coil of
rope now, stretched taut and sharp from zig to zag, and on from zag to zig
again. Below, when we dared to look back and down, the coil of rope lay
looser, curled on itself. The mountain-top crowned by the fort (which as Mr.
Barrymore said, did certainly look like the ark on Ararat when all the rest of
creation was swept off the globe) didn't appear so dimly remote now. We
were coming almost into friendly relations with it, and with neighbouring
mountains whose summits had seemed, a little while ago, as far away as
Kingdom Come.
I began to feel at last as if I could speak without danger of giving the
motor palpitation of the heart. "What are you thinking of, Maida?" I almost
whispered.
"Oh!" she answered with a start, as if I'd waked her out of a dream. "I
was thinking, what if, while we're still in this world we could see heaven, a
far, shining city on a mountain-top like one of these. How much harder we
would strive after worthiness if we saw the place always with our bodily
eyes; how much harder we'd try; and how much less credit it would be for
those who succeeded."
"What are you thinking of, Mamma?" I asked. "Did the big mountains
give you a thought too?"
"Yes, they did," said she, "but I'm afraid it was more worldly than
Maida's. I was saying to myself, the difference in being down far below,
where we were, and high up as we are now, is like our old life in Denver
and our life here." As she went on to expound her parable, she lowered her
voice, so that Sir Ralph and Mr. Barrymore, walking, couldn't catch a word.
"In those days at home, it would have seemed as impossible that we could
have princes and baronets and—and such people for our most intimate
friends, as it looked a little while ago for us to get near that fort up there, or
the mountain-tops. Yet we are, in—in every sense of the word, getting
there."
The thoughts which the mountains had put into Maida's golden head and
Mamma's (now) auburn one were so characteristic of the heads themselves
that I chuckled with glee, and our two men glanced round questioningly.

But in accordance with Mamma's simile, to explain to them would have
been like explaining to the mountains themselves.
By and by, though still going up, we were on snow level. Snow lay white
as Maida's thoughts on either side of the steep road, but le corse had run
shrieking farther down the mountain, and was not at home in its own high
house. We were less cold than we had been; and when presently the worst
of the zigzags were past and a great black tunnel-mouth in sight to show
we'd reached the col, the sun was almost warm. A few moments more, and
(on our second best speed, with all five on board) we had shot into that
great black mouth.
I always thought that we had the longest and biggest of everything in our
country, but I never heard of a tunnel like this in America.
It was the queerest thing to look into I ever saw.
The lamps of our automobile which Mr. Barrymore had stopped to light
before plunging in, showed us a long, long, straight passage cut through the
mountain, with an oval roof arched like an egg. Except for a few yards
ahead, where the way was lit up and the arch of close-set stones glimmered
grey, the blackness would have been unbroken had it not been for the
tunnel-lights. They went on and on in a sparkling line as far as our eyes
could reach; and if the most famous whale in the world had had a spine
made of diamonds, Jonah would have got much the same effect that we did
as he wandered about in the dark trying to get his bearings.
It was only the most distant electric lamps that looked as if they were
diamonds stuck close together along the roof. The near ones were balls of
light under swaying umbrellas of ink-black shadow; and sometimes we
would flash past great sharp stalactites, which were, as Maida said, like
Titanesses' hatpins stuck through from the top of the mountain.
At first the tunnel road was inches thick with white dust; then, much to
our surprise, we ran into a track of greasy mud which made our car waltz as
it had in the Roya valley close to the precipice.
"It's the water filtering in through the holes your Titanesses' hatpins have
made in their big pincushion," explained Mr. Barrymore, who had heard
Maida make that remark. And the hateful creatures had so honeycombed the

whole mountain over our heads, that Mamma and I put up umbrellas to save
ourselves from being drenched.
"What a place this would be for an accident! Or—suppose we met
something that objected to us!" Mamma shrieked, her voice all but drowned
by the reverberation made by our motor in the hollow vault.
With that, as if her words had "conjured it from the vasty deep"—to use a
quotation of Sir Ralph's—something appeared, and it did object to us very
much.
It was a horse, and it gleamed like silver as our front lamp pointed it out
to our startled eyes with a long, bright finger of light.
He was coming towards us, down the narrow, arched passage, walking on
his hind legs, with some one in a cart behind him, standing up and hitting
him on the head with a whip.
We were not really going very fast on account of the splashy mud; but
what with the roaring echo of the motor, the dripping of water, the
narrowness of the tunnel, the yapping of our little dog, the shouts of the
man in the cart, and the strangeness of the picture ahead—just like a lighted
disc on the screen of a magic lantern—it did seem as if everybody
concerned must come to awful grief in about three seconds.
I don't know whether I screamed or not; though I know Mamma did; a
deaf man would have known that. But the first thing I was really sure of
was that Mr. Barrymore had not only stopped the car but the motor, had
jumped down, and gone to the horse's head.
He said something quickly to the driver, which I couldn't understand,
because it was in Italian; but the man didn't yell or whip the horse any
more. Mr. Barrymore patted the poor beast, and talked to him, until he
seemed tired of dancing about as if he were popcorn over a hot fire. Then,
when he had quieted down, and remembered that his forefeet were given
him to walk with and not to paw the air, Mr. Barrymore led him gently up to
our automobile, patting his neck all the time. He snorted and quivered for a
minute, then smelt of what Mr. Barrymore calls the "bonnet," with the
funniest expression of disgust and curiosity.

I imagined the horse was thinking, "This is a very nasty thing, but it
seems to belong to the nicest, kindest man I ever met, so perhaps it isn't as
bad after all as I thought at first."
The driver's scowl turned to a smile, as he eventually drove by, we
waiting till he had got safely past.
"I think that was real nice of you, Mr. Barrymore," said Mamma, as we
went teuf-teufing on again.
She is always a little uneasy with him, because, though he's a friend of
Sir Ralph Moray's, he's only a chauffeur, and she isn't quite sure whether
she oughtn't to patronize him a little to keep up her dignity as a Countess.
But it was a good sign that she should remember his name for once. As for
me, I've given him one for use behind his back, which is to make up for his
lack of a title, express his gorgeousness and define his profession all at the
same time. It is "Chauffeulier," and I rather pride myself on it.
"It was only decent," he answered Mamma. "I love horses, and I've
enough imagination to guess pretty well how one feels when he's called
upon to face some unknown horror, with no sympathy from behind. It
would have been sheer brutality not to stop motor and all for that poor
white chap. He won't be as bad next time; and perhaps his master will have
learned a little common sense too. All the same, that kind of adventure
spells delay, and I hope this tunnel isn't infested with timid horses. Luckily,
the line seems all clear ahead."
A few minutes more, and looking before and after, we could see far away
two little oval pearls of daylight, one straight ahead, one straight behind. It
was like having one's foresight as good as one's hindsight; which in real
life, outside tunnels, would save a lot of disasters. Mr. Barrymore explained
that we'd reached the apex of two slopes, and now we would be descending
gradually.
It gave us a shock to burst out into the sunlight again by-and-by, but it
was a glorious shock, with a thrill as the dazzling white mountains seemed
to leap at our eyes.
If you speak of zigzags going up hill, oughtn't you to call them zagzigs
going down? Anyway, there they were, hundreds of them apparently,

looking something as a huge corkscrew might look if it had been laid on a
railroad track for a train to flatten.
We began to fly down, faster and faster, the motor making no noise at all.
At each turn of the corkscrew it seemed to me as if we must leap over into
space, and I felt as if I had been struck by lightning; but always our
chauffeur steered so as to give plenty of margin between our tyres and the
edge of the precipice; and by-and-by I was thoroughly charged with
electricity so that I ceased to be actually afraid. All I felt was that my soul
was covered with a very thin, sensitive skin.
"Oh, Mr. Terrymore, for mercy's sake, for heaven's sake...!" wailed
Mamma. "I don't feel able to die to-day."
"You shan't, if I can help it," answered Mr. Barrymore, without looking
round; but as he never wears goggles, I could see his face plainly from my
place by his side, and I thought it had rather an odd, stern expression. I
wondered whether he were cross with Mamma for seeming to doubt his
skill, or whether something else was the matter. But instead of fading away,
the expression seemed to harden. He looked just as I should think a man
might look if he were going to fight in a battle. I awfully wanted to ask if
anything were wrong, but something mysterious—a kind of atmosphere
around him, like a barrier I could feel but not see—wouldn't let me.
"I believe the thing is broken, somehow," I said to myself; and the
thought was so awful, when I stared down at all those separate layers of
precipice which we would have to risk before we reached human-level (if
we ever reached it) that my heart pounded like a hammer in my side. It was
a terrible sensation, yet I revelled in it with a kind of desperate joy; for
everything depended on the eye, and nerve, and hand of this one man whom
it was so thrilling to trust.
Each time we twisted round a corkscrew I gave a sigh of relief; for it was
one less peril to pass on the way to safety.
"Do just stop for a moment and let us breathe," cried Mamma; and my
suspicions were confirmed by Mr. Barrymore's answer, thrown over his
shoulder. "It's best not, Countess," he said. "I'll explain afterwards."

Mamma is always ecstatic for an instant after any one has addressed her
as "Countess," so she didn't insist, and only murmured to herself, "Oh, why
did I leave my peaceful home?" in a minor wail which showed me that she
wasn't really half as anxious as I was. But if she could have seen Mr.
Barrymore's profile, and had the inspiration to read it as I did, she would
probably have jumped out of the automobile in full flight. Whereupon,
though she might have gained a crown to wear upon her forehead, all those
on her brushes and powder-pots, and satchels and trunks, would have been
wasted. Poor little Mamma!
We plunged down below the snow-line; we saw far beneath us a wide,
green valley, where other people, the size of flies, were safe if not happy.
We passed some barracks, where a lot of sturdy little mountain soldiers
stopped bowling balls in a dull, stony square to watch us fly by. We
frightened some mules; we almost made a horse faint away; but the
Chauffeulier showed no desire to stop and let them admire our "bonnet" at
close quarters.
The excitement of the drive, and my conviction that Mr. Barrymore was
silently fighting some unseen danger for us all, filled me with a kind of
intoxication. I could have screamed; but if I had, it wouldn't have been with
cowardly fear. Partly, perhaps, the strange exhilaration came from the
beauty of the world on which we were descending almost as if we were
falling from the sky. I felt that I could have lovely thoughts about it—
almost as poetical as Maida's—if only I had had time; but as it was, the
ideas jostled each other in my mind like a crowd of people rushing to catch
a train.
From behind, I could hear Maida's voice from moment to moment, as she
talked to Mamma or Sir Ralph, innocently unsuspicious of any hidden
danger.
"Isn't it all wonderful?" she was saying. "Day before yesterday we left
riotous, tumultuous summer on the Riviera; found autumn in the Roya
valley, chill and grim, though so magnificent; and came into winter snows
this morning. Now we've dropped down into spring. It's like a fairy story I
read once, about a girl whose cruel stepmother drove her from home
penniless, and sent her into the mountains at dead of night, telling her never

to come back unless she could bring an apronful of strawberries for her
stepsister. The poor girl wandered on and on in the dark in a terrible storm,
until at last she strayed to a wild mountain-top, where the twelve Months
lived. Some were old men, wrapped in long cloaks; some were young and
ardent; some were laughing boys. With a stroke of his staff, each Month
could make what he would with the weather. Father January had but to
wave his stick to cause the snow to fall; May, in pity for the girl's tears,
created a rose garden, while his brother's snow-wreaths were melting; but it
was June who finally understood what she wanted, and gave her a bed of
fragrant strawberries. I feel as if we had wandered to the house of the
Months, and they were waving their staffs to create miracles for us."
"It will be a miracle if we ever get out of the house of the Months and
into one of our own," I said to myself, almost spitefully, for the talk in the
tonneau did seem frivolous when I glanced up furtively at that tight-set
mouth of Mr. Barrymore's. And after that, to look down from a frame of
snow mountains through a pinky-white haze of plum, cherry, and pear
blossoms to delicate green meadows sparkling with a thick gold-dust of
dandelions, was for me like going out to be tried for my life in a frock made
by a fairy.
I hardly breathed until the corkscrew uncurled itself at last and turned
into an ordinary downhill road. Our car slackened speed, and finally, as we
came upon the first long, level stretch, to my astonishment moved slower
and more slowly until it stopped dead.

XI

A CHAPTER OF BRAKES AND WORMS

Mamma laughed one of those coquettish, twenty-five-year-old laughs
that go with her auburn hair and her crowns.
"Well, have you decided to give us a chance to breathe, after all?" she
asked. "I should say it was about time."
"I'm afraid you'll breathe maledictions when you hear what is the matter,"
said our Chauffeulier.

"Good gracious! what's happened?" exclaimed Mamma. "If the thing's
going to explode, do let us get out and run."
"So far from exploding, she's likely to be silent for some time," Mr.
Barrymore went on, jumping down and going to the automobile's head. "I'm
awfully sorry. After the delays we've suffered, you won't think motoring is
all it's painted, when I tell you that we're in for another."
"Why, what is it this time?" Mamma asked
.
"I'm not quite sure yet," said Mr. Barrymore, "but the chains are wrong
for one thing, and I'm inclined to think there's some deep-seated trouble. I
shall soon find out, but whatever it is, I hope you won't blame the car too
much. She's a trump, really; but she had a big strain put upon her endurance
yesterday and this morning. Dragging another car twice her size for thirty
miles or more up a mountain pass isn't a joke for a twelve horse-power car."
Any one would think the automobile was his instead of Sir Ralph's by the
pride he takes in it. Sir Ralph doesn't seem to care half as much; but then I
don't believe he's a born sports-man like his friend. You can be a motor-car
owner if you've got money enough; but I guess you have to be born a
motor-car man.
"Well, this isn't exactly an ideal place for an accident," remarked
Mamma, "as it seems to be miles from anywhere; but we ought to be
thankful to Providence for not letting the break come up there on that awful
mountain."
I saw a faint twinkle in Mr. Barrymore's eyes and a twitch of his lips, as
he bent down over the machinery without answering a word, and I couldn't
resist the temptation of letting him see that I was in his secret. There
couldn't be any harm in it's coming out now.
"Thankful to Mr. Barrymore for bringing us safely down the 'awful
mountain' when the break had come at the top," I corrected Mamma, with
my chin in the air.

"Good Heavens, Beechy, what do you mean?" she gasped, while our
Chauffeulier flashed me a quick look of surprise.
"Oh, only that the accident, whatever it was, happened soon after we
came out of the tunnel, and if Mr. Barrymore'd stopped when you wanted
him to, he couldn't have started again, for we were just running downhill
with our own weight; and I knew it all the time," I explained airily.
"You're joking, Beechy, and I think it's horrid of you," said Mamma,
looking as if she were going to cry.
"Am I joking, Mr. Barrymore?" I asked, turning to him.
"I had no idea that you guessed, and I don't see now how you did; but it's
true that the accident happened up there," he admitted, and he looked so
grave that I began to feel guilty for telling.
"Then it was only by a merciful dispensation that we weren't hurled over
the precipice and dashed to pieces," exclaimed Mamma.
"That depends on one's definition of a merciful dispensation," said Mr.
Barrymore. "From one point of view every breath we draw is a merciful
dispensation, for we might easily choke to death at any instant. We were
never for a single moment in danger. If I hadn't been sure of that, of course I
would have stopped the car at any cost. As a matter of fact, when we began
the descent I found that the hand-brake wouldn't act, and knew the chains
had gone wrong. If I'd thought it was only that I could have put on our spare
chains, but I believed there was more and worse, so I determined to get on
as far towards civilization as I could before stopping the car."
"You brought us down those ghastly hills without a brake!" Mamma cried
out, losing her temper. "And Sir Ralph called you careful! I can never trust
you again."
I could have slapped her and myself too.
"Aunt Kathryn!" exclaimed Maida. Then I could have slapped her as well
for interfering. It would serve her right if I married her off to the Prince.
The Chauffeulier looked for a second as if he were going to say "Very
well, madam; do as you like about that." But Maida's little reproachful

exclamation apparently poured balm upon his troubled soul.
"Not without a brake," he answered, with great patience and politeness,
"but with one instead of two. If the foot-brake had burned, as possibly it
might, the compression of the gas in the cylinder could have been made to
act as a brake. The steering-gear was in perfect order, which was the most
important consideration in the circumstances, and I felt that I was
undertaking a responsibility which the car and I together were well able to
carry out. But as I thought that amateurs were likely to be alarmed if they
knew what had happened, I naturally kept my knowledge to myself."
"I saw that something was wrong by the set expression of your face," said
I, "and I wasn't a bit afraid, because I felt, whatever it was, you'd bring us
through all right. But I'm sorry I spoke now."
"You needn't be," said he. "I shouldn't have done so myself yet I wasn't
silent for my own sake; and I should do the same if it had to be done over
again."
But this didn't comfort me much, for I was sure that Maida wouldn't have
spoken if she had been in my place. I don't know why I was sure, but I was.
"Whatever Barrymore does in connection with a motor-car, is always
right, Countess," said Sir Ralph, "though in other walks of life I wouldn't
vouch for him."
His funny way of saying this made us all laugh and Mamma picked up
the good temper which she had lost in her first fright. She began to
apologize, but Mr. Barrymore wouldn't let her; and the storm was soon
forgotten in the interest with which we hung upon the Chauffeulier's
explorations.
He peered into the mysterious inner workings of the machine, tapped
some things, thumped others, and announced that one of the "cones of the
countershaft" was broken

.
"There's no doubt that the undue strain yesterday and this morning
weakened it," he said, coming up from the depths with a green smear on his
noble brow. "What we've really to be thankful for is that it waited to snap
until we'd got up all the hills. Now, though as the Countess says we seem to
be miles from anywhere, we're actually within close touch of civilization.
Unless I'm out in my calculations, we must be near a place called Limone,
where, if there isn't much else, at least there's a station on the new railway
line. All we've got to do is to find something to tow us, as we towed
Dalmar-Kalm (a mere mule will answer as well as a motor) to that station,
where we can put the car on the train and be at Cuneo in no time. The
guide-books say that Cuneo's interesting, and anyhow there are hotels of
sorts there—also machine tools, a forge, a lathe, and things of that kind
which we can't carry about with us."
"What a splendid adventure!" exclaimed Maida. "I love it; don't you,
Beechy?"
I answered that I entertained a wild passion for it; but all the same, I
wished I'd mentioned it first.
This settled Mamma's attitude towards the situation. She saw that it was
young to enter into the spirit of the adventure, so she took the cue from us
and flung herself in with enthusiasm enough to make up for her crossness.
"Somebody must go on an exploring expedition for a mule," said Mr.
Barrymore, "and as I'm the only one whose Italian is fairly fluent, I suppose
I must be the somebody. Miss Destrey, would you care to go with me for
the sake of a little exercise?"
In another minute I would have volunteered, but even thirteen-year-olds
have too much pride to be the third that makes a crowd. Gooseberry jam is
the only jam I don't like; so I kept still and let them go off together,
chaperoned by the little black dog. Sir Ralph stood by the automobile
talking to Mamma while I wandered aimlessly about, though I could tell by
the corner of his eye that she didn't occupy his whole attention.
Just to see what would happen, I suddenly squatted down by the side of
the road, about twenty yards away, and began to dig furiously with the point

of my parasol. I hadn't been at work for three minutes when I was rewarded.
"The Countess has sent me to ask what you are doing, Miss Beechy,"
announced a nice voice; and there was Sir Ralph peering over my shoulder.
"I'm looking for one of my poor relations," said I. "A worm. She's sent up
word that she isn't in. But I don't believe it."
"I'm glad my rich relations aren't as prying as you are," said he. "I often
send that message when it would be exceedingly inconvenient to have
further inquiries pressed. Not to rich relations, though, for the very good
reason that they don't bother about me or other poor worms, who have not
my Félicité to defend them."
"Who's Félicité?" I asked, not sorry to keep Sir Ralph for my own sake or
that of Mamma—who was probably taking advantage of his absence to put
powder on her nose and pink stuff on her lips, by the aid of her chatelaine
mirror.
"Who's Félicité? You might as well ask who is the Queen of England.
Félicité is my cook—my housekeeper—my guide, philosopher and friend;
my all."
"That dear, fat duck who brought us tea the day we were at your house?"
"I have two ducks. But Félicité was the one who brought you the tea. The
other eats mice and fights the cat. Félicité doesn't eat mice, and fights me."
"I loved her."
"So do I. And I could love you for loving her."
"Perhaps you'd better not."
"Why? It's safe and allowable for men of my age to love little girls."
"I'm different from other little girls. You said so yourself. Besides what is
your age?"
"Twenty-nine."
"You look about nineteen. Our Chauffeulier looks older than you do."

"Chauffeulier? Oh, I see, that's your name for Terry. It's rather smart."
"I call it a title, not a name," said I. "I thought he ought to have one, so I
dubbed him that."
"He ought to be complimented."
"I mean him to be."
"Come now, tell me what name you've invented for me, Miss
Beechy."
I shook my head. "You've got a ready-made title. But you look too boyish
to live up to it. The Chauffeulier would come up to my idea of a baronet
better than you do."
"Oh, you don't have to be dignified really to be a baronet, you know.
Terry—er—you mustn't mention to him that I told you; but he may be
something a good deal bigger than a baronet one day."
"He's a good deal bigger than a baronet now," said I, laughing, and
measuring Sir Ralph from head to foot. "But what may he be one day?"
"I mustn't say more. But if you're at all interested in him, that will be
enough to fix your attention."
"What would be the good of fixing my attention on him, if that's what
you mean," I inquired, "when he's got his attention fixed upon another?"
"Oh, you mustn't judge by appearances," said Sir Ralph hastily. "He likes
you awfully; though, of course, as you're so young, he can't show it as he
would to an older girl."
"I shall grow older," said I. "Even before we finish this trip I shall be a
little older."
"Of course you will," Sir Ralph assured me soothingly. "By that time,
Terry will, no doubt, have screwed up courage to show you how much he
likes you."
"I shouldn't have thought he lacked courage," said I.

"Only where girls are concerned," explained Sir Ralph.
"He seems brave enough with my cousin Maida. It's Mamma and me he
doesn't say much to, unless we speak to him first."
"You see he's horribly afraid of being thought a fortune-hunter. He's
almost morbidly sensitive in that way."
"O-oh, I see," I echoed. "Is that the reason he's so stand-off with us—
because he knows we're rich?"
"Yes. Otherwise he'd be delightful, just as he is with Miss Destrey, with
whom he doesn't have to think of such things."
"You're fond of him, aren't you?" I asked, beginning again to dig for the
worm; for Sir Ralph was squatting beside me now, watching the point of
my parasol.
"Rather!" he exclaimed. "He's the finest fellow on earth. I should like to
see him as happy as he deserves to be."
"But you don't want him to fall in love with Maida?"
"That's the last thing I should choose for either of them. Though it's early
to talk of such contingencies, isn't it, as they've known each other—we've
all known each other—only a few days?"
"It only takes a few minutes for the most important things to happen,
such as being born and dying. Why should falling in love take more? It
wouldn't with me."
"You're young to judge."
"Pooh, I've been in love several times. Now I come to think of it, I'm in
love this moment—or almost. Why don't you want Mr. Barrymore to fall in
love with my cousin?"
"It would be imprudent."
"Perhaps you're falling in love with her yourself."
"I shouldn't wonder."

"If you'll tell me whether you are or not, I'll tell you who it is I think I'm
in love with."
"Well, I could be. Now for your secret."
"I give you leave to guess."
"Really?"
"And truly."
"Some one we've just been talking about?"
"'I could be.' Oh dear, I believe this worm is out after all."
"This is most interesting. I don't mean about the worm. Terry's in luck for
once."
"But he thinks me a little girl."
"Little girls can be fascinating. Besides, I'll make it my business to
remind him that little girls don't take long to grow up."
"Will you really? But you won't let him know about this talk?"
"Sooner would I be torn in two by wild motor-cars. These confidences
are sacred."
"I'll say nice things about you to Maida," I volunteered.
He stared for a minute, and then laughed. "I should tell you not to if I
weren't certain that all the nice things in the world might be said on that
subject with no more effect upon Miss Destrey than a shower of rain has on
my duck's back. You must try and help me not to fall in love with her."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because, for one reason, she'd never fall in love with me; and for
another, I couldn't in any event afford to love her, any more than can my
friend Terry Barrymore."
"Perhaps I'd better work her off on the Prince, and then you'd both be out
of danger," said I.

"It would at least save me anxiety about my friend, though I should
doubtless suffer in the process," replied Sir Ralph.
"I'll comfort you whenever I have time," I assured him
.
"Do," he entreated. "It will be a real charity. And in the meantime, I
shan't be idle. I shall be working for you."
"Thank you ever so much," said I. "I should be glad if you'd report
progress from time to time."
"I will," said he. "We'll keep each other up, won't we?"
"Be-echy!" shrieked Mamma. "I've been screaming to you for the last
twenty minutes. Come here at once and tell me what you're doing. It's sure
to be something naughty."
So we both came. But the only part that we mentioned was the worm.

XII

A CHAPTER OF HORRORS

It is wonderful how well it passes time to have a secret understanding
with anybody; that is, if you're a girl, and the other person a man. Mr.
Barrymore and Maida seemed hardly to have gone before they were back
again; which pleased me very much. In attendance was a man with a mule
—a grinning man; a ragged and reluctant mule; which was still more
reluctant when it found out what it was expected to do. However, after a
fine display of diplomacy on our Chauffeulier's part, and force on that of
the mule's owner, the animal was finally hitched to the automobile with
strong rope.
Mr. Barrymore had to sit in the driver's seat to steer, while the man led
the mule, but we others decided to walk. Mamma's heels are not quite as
high as her pride (when she's feeling pretty well), so she preferred to march
on the road rather than endure the ignominy of being dragged into even the
smallest of villages behind the meanest of beasts.

A train for Cuneo was due at Limone, it seemed, in an hour, and we could
walk there in about half that time, Mr. Barrymore thought. He had made
arrangements with the capo di stazione, as he called him, to have a truck in
readiness. The automobile would be put on it, and the truck would be
hitched to the train.
Maida and I were delighted with everything; and when Mamma
grumbled a little, and said this sort of thing wasn't what she'd expected, we
argued so powerfully that it was much more fun getting what you did not
expect, than what you did, that we brought her round to our point of view,
and set her laughing with the rest of us.
"After all, what does it matter, as long as we're all young together?" said
she, at last; and then I knew that the poor dear was happy.
Sir Ralph considered Limone an ordinary Italian village, but it seemed
fascinating to us. The fruit stalls, under overhanging balconies, looked as if
piled with splendid jewels; rubies, amethysts and pearls, globes of gold, and
silver, and coral, as big as those that Aladdin found in the wonderful cave.
Dark girls with starry eyes and clouds of hair stood gossipping in old,
carved doorways, or peered curiously down at us from oddly shaped
windows; and they were so handsome that we liked them even when they
doubled up with laughter at our procession, and called their lovers and
brothers to laugh too.
Men and women ran out from dark recesses where they sold things, and
from two-foot-wide alleys which the sun could never have even seen,
staring at us, and saying "molta bella" as Maida passed. She really was very
effective against the rich-coloured background—like a beautiful white bird
that had strayed into the narrow village streets, with sunshine on its wings.
But she didn't seem to realize that she was being looked at in a different
way from the rest of us. "I suppose we're as great curiosities to them, as
they are to us," she said, lingering to gaze at the gorgeous fruit, or some
quaint Catholic emblems for sale in dingy windows, until Sir Ralph had to
hurry her along lest we should miss the train.
We were in plenty of time, though; and at the railroad depôt (according to
me), or the railway station (according to Sir Ralph and our Chauffeulier),
the automobile had been got onto the truck before the train was signalled.

Our tickets had been bought by Mr. Barrymore, who would pay for them
all, as he said it was "his funeral," and we stood in a row on the platform,
waiting, when the train boomed in.
As it slowed down, car after car passing us, Mamma gave a little scream
and pointed. "Look, there's another automobile on a truck!" said she. "My
goodness, if it isn't exactly like the Prince's!"
"And if that isn't exactly like the Prince!" echoed Sir Ralph, waving his
hand at the window of a car next to the truck.
We all broke into a shout of ribald joy. Not even a saint could have
helped it, I'm sure; for Maida is pretty near to a saint, and she was as bad as
any of us.
The Prince's head popped back into the window, like a rabbit's into its
hole; but in another second he must have realized that it was no use playing
'possum when there, within a dozen yards, was that big scarlet runner of his,
as large as life, though not running for the moment. He quickly decided to
make the best of things by turning the tables upon us, and pointing the
finger of derision at our automobile, which by careening himself out of the
window he could see on its truck.
Before the train had stopped, he was down on the platform, gallantly
helping Mamma up the high step into the compartment where he had been
sitting; so we all followed.
"You broke something, I see," His Highness remarked jovially, as if
nothing had ever happened to him.
"It was you who broke it," said I, before either of our men could speak.
"But I mean something in your motor," he explained.
"Yes, its heart! The long agony of towing you up those miles of mountain
was too much for it. But motors' hearts can be mended."
"So can young ladies', n'est-ce pas? Well, this is an odd meeting. I
telegraphed you, Countess, to the hotel at Cuneo, where we arranged our
rendezvous, in case you arrived before me, to say that I was on the way; but
now we will all go there together. Since we parted I have had adventures.

So, evidently, have you. Joseph's repairs were so unsatisfactory, owing to
his own inefficiency and that of the machine shop, that I saw the best thing
to do was to come on by train to Cuneo, where proper tools could be
obtained. After some difficulty I found horses to tow me up to the railway
terminus at Vievola, where I succeeded in getting a truck, and—voila!"
Whereupon Mamma poured a history of our exploits into the Prince's
ears, exaggerating a little, but saying nothing detrimental to our
Chauffeulier, who would perhaps not have cared or even heard if she had,
for he was showing things to Maida through the window.
"We're in Piedmont now," he said. "How peaceful and pretty, and
characteristically Italian it is, with the vines and chestnut trees and
mulberries! Who would think, to see this richly cultivated plain, that it was
once appropriately nicknamed 'the cockpit of Europe,' because of all the
fighting that has gone on here between so many nations, ever since the
dawn of civilization? It's just as hard to realize as to believe that the tiny
rills trickling over pebbly river-beds which we pass can turn into mighty
floods when they choose. When the snows melt on Monte Viso—that great,
white, leaning tower against the sky—and on the other snow mountains,
then is the time of danger in this land that the sun loves."
Mamma thought the train rather restful after an automobile, but I
discouraged her in that opinion by saying that it sounded very old-
fashioned, and she amended it by hurriedly remarking that, anyhow, she
would soon be tired of resting and glad to get on again.
"That must be Cuneo, now," said Mr. Barrymore, pointing to a distant
town which seemed to grow suddenly up out of the plain, very important,
full of vivid colours, and modern looking after the strange, ancient villages
we had passed on the way.
When we got out of the train Joseph was on the platform, more depressed
than ever, but visibly brightening at sight of Mr. Barrymore, for whom he
evidently cherishes a lively admiration; or else he regards him as a
professional brother.
What happened to the two automobiles, I don't know, for we didn't stop
to see. Sir Ralph had a hurried consultation with Mr. Barrymore, and then

said that he would take us up to the hotel in a cab, with all our luggage.
There wasn't room for the Prince in our ramshackle old vehicle, and he
took another, being apparently very anxious to arrive at the hotel before us.
He spoke to his driver, who lashed the one poor nag so furiously that Maida
cried out with rage, and they flashed past us, the horse galloping as if Black
Care were on his back. But something happened to the harness, and they
were obliged to stop; so we got ahead, and reached the wide-arcaded square
of the hotel first after all.
It was quite a grand-looking town, for a middle-sized one, but Mamma
drew back hastily when she had taken a step into the hall of the hotel. "Oh,
we can't stop here!" she exclaimed. "This must be the worst instead of the
best."
With that several little men in greasy dress-coats, spotted shirts, and
collars so low that you could see down their necks, sprang forward and
bowed very humbly, like automata. "May I have the extreme honour of
asking if it is her very high grace, Madame the Countess Dalmar and suite
who felicitate our humble hotel with their presence?" inquired the fattest
and spottiest in one long French breath.
Mamma drew herself up to her full height, which must be at least five
feet three, heels included. I don't know exactly what it is to bridle, but I'm
sure she did it. She also moistened her lips and smiled with both dimples.
"Wee, wee, jay swee Countess Dalmar," she admitted, leaving her suite to
account for itself.
"Then I have here a telegram for madame," went on the man, giving her a
folded paper which, with an air, he drew forth from an unspeakable pocket.
Mamma looked important enough for a princess, at least, as she accepted
(I can't say took) the paper and opened it. "Oh, I might have known," she
said, "it's that one the Prince sent this morning. But isn't it funny he
telegraphs 'Automobile in grand condition, took hills like bird, shall make
slight détour for pleasure, but will reach Cuneo almost as soon as your
party. Dalmar-Kalm.' I don't understand, do you?"

"I understand why the Prince was willing to be left behind at Tenda, and
why he wanted to get to this hotel first, anyhow," said I; and Sir Ralph and I
were laughing like mad when his belated Highness appeared on the scene.
Seeing Mamma with the telegram in her hand, he explained volubly that it
had been sent before he decided to save time and wear and tear by coming
on the train; but he was red, and stammery, and Sir Ralph looked almost
sympathetic, which made me wonder whether all motor-men sometimes tell
fibs.
After being received with so much appreciation, Mamma began to think
that perhaps the hotel wasn't so dreadful after all; and when Sir Ralph gave
his opinion that it would prove as good as any other, she said that we would
stay.
"I should be sorry to hurt the people's feelings, as they seem such nice
men," she sighed. "But—I suppose it will only be for coffee?"
"I'm sorely afraid it will be for dinner to-night and breakfast to-morrow
morning too," replied Sir Ralph. "It's too bad that virtue such as ours should
have such a reward. We did unto others as we would they should do unto
us; and this is the consequence. Terry intends to work all night on the car, if
he can get the mechanic to keep his shop going, and we may hope to start as
early in the morning as you like."
"Perhaps Joseph may have mine ready to-night, in which case I can take
the ladies on—" the Prince began, but Mamma was too overcome to hear
him. Trying to look like a Countess at all costs, she allowed herself and us
to be led, as lambs to the slaughter, up a flight of dirty stone stairs, to see
the bedrooms.
"You will have our best, is it not, Madame la Comtesse?" inquired the
man of the hotel, who seemed to be a cross between a manager and a head-
waiter, and who swelled with politeness behind a shirt-front that resembled
nothing so much as the ten of clubs. "Yes, I was sure of that, gracious
madame. You and your suite may assure yourselves that you will be placed
in our chambres de luxe."
With this announcement, he threw open a door, and stood salaaming that
we might file in before him.

Mamma pitched forward down a step, shrieked, tottered, saved herself by
clawing the air, while Maida and I both pitched after her, falling into fits of
laughter.
It couldn't have been colder in the spotty man's family vault, and I hope
not as musty.
Maida flew to one of the two windows, set deep in the thickness of the
wall, and darkened by the stone arcade outside. But apparently it was
hermetically sealed, and so was the other which I attacked. The Ten of
Clubs looked shocked when we implored him to open something—
anything; and it was with reluctance that he unscrewed a window. "The
ladies will be cold," he said. "It is not the weather for letting into the house
the out of doors. We do that in the summer."
"Haven't these windows been opened since then?" gasped Maida.
"But no mademoiselle. Not to my knowledge."
"Make him show us other rooms, quick," said Mamma, who can't speak
much more French than a cat, though she had a lesson from a handsome
young gentleman every day at Cap Martin, at ten francs an hour.
"This is the only one that will accommodate the ladies," replied the Ten
of Clubs. "The other that we have unoccupied must be for the gentlemen."
The idea of our two men and the Prince as room-mates was so
excruciating that I suddenly felt equal to bearing any hardship; but Mamma
hasn't the same sense of humour I have, and she said that she knew she was
sickening for something, probably smallpox.
"Three of us in this room all night!" she wailed. "We shall never leave the
hotel alive."
At this juncture Sir Ralph appeared at the door, peeping gingerly in at us,
and looking the picture of misery.
"I'm so sorry for everything," he said. "Terry's down-stairs, and we both
feel that we're awful sweeps, though we hope you won't think we are. He's
going to interview the other hotels and see if he can find anything better, so
don't decide till he comes back."

We three female waifs stood about and smelt things and imagined that we
smelled still more things, while Sir Ralph exhausted himself in keeping up a
conversation with the Ten of Clubs, as if all four of our lives depended upon
it. The ordeal lasted only about ten minutes, though it seemed a year, and
then Mr. Barrymore's tall form loomed in the dark doorway.
"There's nothing better," he announced desperately. "But you ladies can
go on to Alessandria by train with Dalmar-Kalm, who'll be only too happy
to take you."
"What, and desert Mr. Automobile-Micawber?" I cut in. "Never! We're
none of us infirm old women, are we, Mamma, that we should mind
roughing it, for once?"
"No-o," said Mamma. "It—I dare say it will be fun. And anyhow, we can
have them make a fire here, so it will be less like picnicking in one's own
grave."
The very thought of a fire was cheering, and we trooped off to the salle à
manger, where it was understood that the Prince had gone to order coffee.
Mr. Barrymore wouldn't stay, for he was anxious to get back to the motor,
which he had left at a machinist's, and deserted only long enough to come
and give us news. The "shop" was to keep open all night, and he would
work there, making a new cone. Joseph, it seemed, was to work all night in
another shop, and both automobiles were to be ready in the morning.
"But you will be horribly tired, driving through the day and working
through the night," said Maida. "I for one would rather stop here to-
morrow."
"It's nothing, thanks. I shall rather like it," replied the Chauffeulier.
"Please don't worry about me." Then he gave us a smile and was off.
The coffee was so good that our spirits rose. We decided to unpack what
we needed, and then, by way of passing the time before dinner, take a walk.
Strange to say, the Prince did not complain of his quarters, but, after we
had for the second time refused his offer of an escort to Alessandria,
became somewhat taciturn. We left him in the salle à manger, Mamma
heading the procession of three which trailed to our room. Maida and I

lingered behind for a moment, to play with our first Italian cat, until a wild
cry of "Fire!" from Mamma took us after her with a rush. A cloud of wood
smoke beat us back, but Maida pushed bravely in, got a window open
again, and, after all, there was nothing more exciting than a smoky
chimney.
Sir Ralph, hearing the clamour, flew to the rescue, poured water from the
pitcher into the ricketty three-legged stove, upset a good deal on himself
and on the cemented floor (which looked like a slab of frozen sausage), and
finally succeeded in putting out the fire, though not until both beds were
covered with blacks.
By this time the Ten of Clubs, the Nine, the Eight, and all the little cards
of the pack were dancing about us in a state bordering on frenzy, but Maida
and Sir Ralph together eventually evolved a kind of unlovely order out of
chaos, and everybody was told off to perform some task or other: one to
sweep, one to dust, one to change the bedding.
In self-defence we hurried off for our walk, leaving the unpacking for
later, and Sir Ralph proposed that we should find the machine shop where
the Chauffeulier was working.
We asked the way of a good many people, all of whom gave us different
directions, and at last arrived at a building which looked as if it might be the
right place. But there was Joseph pounding and mumbling to himself, and
no Mr. Barrymore.
In common humanity we stopped for a few words, and Joseph mistook
our inch of sympathy for an ell. Almost with tears he told us the history of
his day, and choked with rage at the prospect of the long task before him.
"What is it to His Highness that I lose a night's sleep?" he demanded of a
red-hot bar which he brandished at arm's length. "Less than nothing, since
he will sleep, believing that all will be ready for him in the morning. But his
dreams would be less calm if he knew what I know."
"What do you know, Joseph?" asked Sir Ralph, edging nearer to the door.
"That the water-power will be shut off at eleven o'clock, the lathes will
no longer turn, and I can do nothing more till to-morrow morning at six,
which means that we will not get away till noon."

"By Jove, that's a bad look-out for us, too," said Sir Ralph, when we had
escaped from Joseph. "I suppose things will be the same at Terry's place.
What a den for you to be delayed in! But I've an idea the Prince means to
sneak quietly off to Alessandria, and will expect Joseph to meet him there
to-morrow morning. My prophetic soul divined as much from his
thoughtful air as we discussed our quarters."
It was almost dark when we found the other machine shop, at the end of a
long straight road with a brook running down it, and trees walking beside it,
straight and tall. It was a wonderful, luminous kind of darkness, though,
that hadn't forgotten the sunset, and the white mountains were great banks
of roses against a skyful of fading violets. But the minute we stepped inside
the machine shop, which was lighted up by the red fire of a forge, night
seemed suddenly to fall like a black curtain, shutting down outside the open
door and windows.
Two or three men were moving about the place, weedy little fellows; and
Mr. Barrymore was like a giant among them, a splendid giant, handsomer
than ever in a workman's blouse of blue linen, open at the throat, and the
sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show muscles that rippled under the skin
like waves on a river.
That was what I thought, at least; but Sir Ralph apparently differed with
me, for he said, "You do look a sweep. Isn't it about time you dropped work,
and thought of making yourself respectable for dinner? Judging by
appearances, that will take you several hours."
"I'm going to have a sandwich and some wine of the country here,"
answered the giant in the blue blouse. "Awfully good of you all to come and
call on me. Would you like to see the new cone, as far as it's got?"
Of course we said "yes," and were shown a thing which looked as if it
might be finished in ten minutes; but when Sir Ralph commented on it to
that effect, Mr. Barrymore went into technical explanations concerning
"cooling" and other details of which none of us understood anything except
that it would be an "all night job."
"But you can't work without the water-wheel, I suppose?" said Sir Ralph.
"And we've just heard from Joseph toiling away at a rival establishment,

that the water is taken off at eleven."
"This water won't be. I'm paying extra for it. As a great concession I'm to
have it all night. Joseph could have got it, too, if he'd had a little
forethought."
"Joseph and forethought! Never. And what is more, I don't think he'd
thank us for the information. He is rejoicing in the thought of an excuse for
bed."
"That's the difference between a chauffeur and a Chauffeulier," I
whispered to Maida.
"It's really very good of you to work so hard," said Mamma,
condescending to the blue blouse.
"I never enjoyed anything more in my life," replied its wearer, with a
quick glance towards Maida, which I intercepted. "The one drop of poison
in my cup is the thought of your discomfort," he went on, to us all. "You
must make them give you warming-pans anyhow, and be sure that the beds
are dry."
"I should think they're more like swamps than beds," said Mamma. "We
shall sit up rather than run any risk."
"Besides," I began, "there might be—"

Two or three men were moving about the place
"Hush, Beechy!" she indignantly cut me short.
"I was only going to say there might be—"
"You mustn't say it."
"Sofa birds."
"You naughty, dreadful child. I am astonished."

"Don't prig or vipe, Mamma. Sir Ralph, don't you think those are nice
abbreviations? I made them up myself. 'Prig', be priggish. 'Vipe', be
viperish. Mamma's not at all nice when she's either."
"I think you're all wonderfully good-natured," remarked Mr. Barrymore
hastily. "You are the right sort of people for a motoring trip, and no other
sort ought to undertake one. Only men and women of fairly venturesome
dispositions, who revel in the unexpected, and love adventure, who can find
fun in hardships, and keep happy in the midst of disappointments, should
set out on such an expedition as this."
"In fact, young people like ourselves," added Mamma, beaming again.
"Yes, young in heart, if not in body. I hope to be still motoring when I'm
eighty; but I shall feel a boy."
We left him hammering, and looking radiantly happy, which was more
than we were as we wandered back to the arcaded town and our hotel; but
we felt obliged to live up to the reputation Mr. Barrymore had just given us.
Somehow, the Ten of Clubs and his assistant cards (there were no
chambermaids) had contrived to make a fire that didn't smoke, and the bed
linen looked clean, though coarse. Dinner—which we ate with our feet on
boards under the table, to keep them off the cold stone floor—was
astonishingly good, and we quite enjoyed grating cheese into our soup on a
funny little grater with which each one of us was supplied. We had a
delicious red wine with a little sparkle in it, called Nebiolo, which Sir Ralph
ordered because he thought we would like it; and when we had finished
dining, Mamma felt so much encouraged that she spoke quite cheerfully of
the coming night.
We went to our room early, as we were to start at eight next day, and try
to get on to Pavia and Milan. We had said nothing to the Prince about the
water-wheel, as it was not our affair to get Joseph into trouble with his
master; and I'm afraid that all of us except Mamma derived a sinful
amusement from the thought of His Highness's surprise in the morning, at
Alessandria or elsewhere. Even Maida's eyes twinkled naughtily as he bade
us "au revoir, till our start," kissing Mamma's hand, and saying nothing of
his night plans.

"I wonder, if we could go to bed, after all?" soliloquized Mamma,
looking wistfully at the hard pillows and the red-cased down coverlets,
when we were in our room. "What was that Mr. Terrymore said about
warming-pans? I should have thought they were obsolete, except to hang up
on parlour walls."
"I should think nothing that was in use six hundred years ago, was
obsolete in an Italian town like this," said I. "Anyhow, I'll ring and see."
I did ring, but nobody answered, of course, and I had to yell over the top
of the stairs for five minutes, when the Ten of Clubs appeared, looking
much injured, having evidently believed that he was rid of us for the night.
He almost wept in his earnest endeavours to assure us that the bedding
was as dry and warm as the down on a swan's breast; but when Maida
insisted on warming-pans, he admitted that they existed in the house.
We were sleepy, but having ordered warming-pans which might stalk in
at any moment, we could not well begin to undress until they had been
produced and manipulated. We waited an hour, until we were nodding in
our chairs, and all started from a troubled doze at the sound of loud
knocking at the door.
In the passage outside stood four sad-faced young men of the card tribe,
bearing two large and extraordinary implements. One looked like a couple
of kitchen chairs lashed together foot to foot, to make a cage, or frame, the
space between being lined with sheets of metal. The other was a great
copper dish with big enough holes pricked in the cover to show the red
glow from a quantity of acrid smelling wood-ashes.
All four came into the room, solemn and silent, while we watched them,
struck dumb with amazement.
They set down the things on the floor, turned open the larger bed of the
two, which Mamma and I were to share, put in the huge frame, shoved the
copper bowl inside it, as a cook would shove a dish into the oven, and
replaced the covering. Then they stood and gravely waited for ten or fifteen
minutes, till they thought that the dampness had been cooked out. We stood
by also, momentarily expecting to see the bed break into flames; but
nothing happened, except rather a nice, hot smell. At last, with one accord

they flew at the blankets, turned them down, took out dish and frame, and
repeated the same process with Maida's narrow bunk.
It took us nearly an hour afterwards to get ready for bed, but when we
crept in at last it was like cuddling down in a hot bird's-nest, odorous of
cooked moss.
In the daytime we hadn't noticed that the hotel was particularly noisy,
though it apparently had most other vices; but ten o'clock seemed the hour
when all the activities of the house and town began.
Church bells boomed; electric bells rang; myriads of heavy carts rolled
through the stone-paved square; people sang, whistled, laughed, gossipped,
quarrelled, and even danced in the street under our windows, while those in
the hotel had apparently been advised by their physicians to run up and
down stairs for hours without stopping, for the good of their livers.
It was a busy night for everybody, and my one consolation was in
planning the dreadful tortures I would inflict on the whole population of
Cuneo if I were King of Italy. I thought of some very original things, but the
worst of it was, when I did finally fall asleep I dreamed that they were
being tried on me
.

XIII

A CHAPTER OF WILD BEASTS

"The dear thing! How nice to see it again! I could kiss it," I heard Maida
saying. Something was snorting dreadfully, too. I'm not sure which waked
me. But I sleepily asked Maida what it was she could kiss.
"Why, the automobile, of course," she replied. "Now, Beechy, don't drop
off again. It's down there in the courtyard. Can't you hear it calling? This is
the third time I've tried to wake you up."
"Oh, I thought it was the Ten of Clubs roaring, while I dipped him
repeatedly into boiling cod-liver oil," I murmured; but I jumped out of bed

and dressed myself as if the house were on fire.
Mamma said that she had been up since six; and I knew why; she hadn't
liked to make herself beautiful under the eyes of Maida, so exquisitely
adorned by Nature. But she was fresh and gay as a cricket.
In the salle à manger were Sir Ralph and Mr. Barrymore, who had
brought the motor from the machine shop. He looked as well tubbed and
groomed as if he had had two hours for his toilet, instead of twenty minutes;
and we laughed a great deal as we told our night adventures, feeling as if
we'd been friends for months, if not years. It was much nicer without the
Prince, I thought, though Mamma kept glancing at the door, and showed her
disappointment on learning that he had stolen off to sleep at Alessandria.
Joseph, it seemed, had telegraphed him this morning about the water-wheel,
and the news that his automobile couldn't be ready till twelve or one
o'clock.
As we thankfully turned our backs on Cuneo we realized why it had been
given a name signifying "wedge," because of the two river torrents, the
Stura and Gesso, that whittle the town to a point, one on either side. For a
while we ran smoothly along a road on a high embankment, which
reminded Sir Ralph and the Chauffeulier of the Loire; less beautiful though,
they thought, despite the great wedding-ring of white mountains that girdled
the country round.
By and by the mountains dwindled to hills, purple and blue in the
distance, misty spring-green in the foreground; in place of the dandelions of
yesterday we had a carpet of buttercups woven in gold on either side of the
road. There was always the river, too; and, as Maida said, water brightens a
landscape as a diamond brightens a ring.
The air was as warm now as on the Riviera but there was a tingle of
youth and spring in it, while at Cap Martin it was already heavy with the
perfume of summer flowers. And we had not to be sorry for poor people to-
day, for there were no poverty-stricken villages. The country was rich,
every inch cultivated, and there were comfortable farms with tall,
important-looking gateways. But, then, Mr. Barrymore told us that it was no
safer to judge an Italian farm by its gateway than an Italian village shop by
the contents of its windows.

After a while, just as we might have begun to tire of the far-reaching
plain, it broke into billows, each earthy wave crested by a ruined château, or
a still thriving mediæval town. Bra was the finest, with a grand old red-
brown castle towering high on a hill, and throwing a cool shadow all across
the hot, white road below.
"We must stop in Asti, if it's but for ten minutes," said Sir Ralph.
"Why?" asked Maida, over her shoulder (she was sitting in the front seat
again, where Mr. Barrymore had contrived to put her). "Do you mean on
account of Vittorio Alfieri?"
"Who is he?" inquired Mamma; and I was wondering, too; but I hate to
show that I don't know things Maida knows.
"Oh, he was a charming poet, born in Asti in the middle of the eighteenth
century," said Maida. "I've read a lot about him, at—at home. He had one of
the prettiest love stories in history. It is like an Anthony Hope romance. I
thought, perhaps, Sir Ralph wanted us to see the house where he lived."
"I'm ashamed to say it was the Asti Spumante I was thinking of,"
confessed Sir Ralph. "It's a wine for children, but it might amuse you all to
taste it on its native heath; and you could drink the health of Vittorio Alfieri
—in a better world."
Mamma thought that proceeding rather too Popish for a professed
Presbyterian; nevertheless, we decided to have the wine. We approached
Asti by way of a massive gateway, which formed a part of the ancient
fortifications of the city; and though we had seen several others rather like it
since coming into Piedmont and Lombardy, it struck me with a sort of awe
that I would have been ashamed to put into words, except on paper, for fear
somebody might laugh. I suppose it's because I come from a country where
we think houses aged at fifty, and antique at a hundred; but these old
fortified towns and ruined castles frowning down from rocky heights give
me the kind of eerie thrill one might have if one had just died and was being
introduced to scenery and society on the fixed stars or planets.
At home it had always seemed so useless to know which was which,
Guelfs or Ghibellines, when I was studying history, that I made no effort to
fix them in my mind; but now, when I caught snatches of talk between

Maida and the Chauffeulier, to whom the Guelfs and Ghibellines are still
apparently as real as Republicans and Democrats were to Papa, I wished
that I knew a little more about them. But how could I tell in those days that
I would ever be darting about in a country where George Washington and
Abraham Lincoln would seem more unreal than the Swabian Emperors, the
Marquesses of Montferrat, and the Princes of Savoie ever did to me in
Denver?
I envied Maida when I heard her say that the House of Savoie had been
like Gœthe's star, "unhasting and unresting" in its absorption of other
principalities, marquisates, counties, duchies, and provinces, which it had
matched into one great mosaic, at last, making the kingdom of Italy. Mr.
Barrymore loves Italy so much that he likes her for knowing these things,
and I think I shall steal that book she bought at Nice, and is always reading
—Hallam's "Middle Ages."
The effect of the grim old gateways, even upon me, is a little marred by
the fact that from out of their shadows usually jump small blue-uniformed
Octroi men like Jacks from a box. At Asti there was a particularly fussy
one, who wouldn't take Mr. Barrymore's word that we'd nothing to declare,
but poked and prodded at our hold-alls and bags, and even sniffed as if he
suspected us of spirits, tobacco, or onions. He looked so comic as he did
this that Maida laughed, which appeared to overwhelm him with remorse,
as if an angel had had hysterics. He flushed, bowed, motioned for us to pass
on, and we sailed into a wide, rather stately old street.
"Oh, look!" Maida cried out, pointing, and the Chauffeulier slowed down
before a house with a marble tablet on it. It was almost a palace; and
Mamma began to feel some respect for Vittorio Alfieri when she read on the
slab of marble that he had been born there. "Why, he must have been a
gentleman!" she exclaimed.
Maida and Mr. Barrymore laughed at that, and Sir Ralph said that
evidently the Countess had a small opinion of poets.
"Another Countess loved Alfieri," remarked Mr. Barrymore; and when
Mamma heard that, she made a note to buy his poems. But I don't believe
she knew who the Countess of Albany was, though she was able to join
feebly in the conversation about the Young Pretender.

We went into the house, and wandered about some cold, gloomy rooms,
in one of which Vittorio had happened to be born. We saw his portrait, and a
sonnet in his own handwriting, which Mr. Barrymore translated for Maida,
and would for me, perhaps, only I was too proud to interrupt. Altogether I
should have felt quite out of it if it hadn't been for Sir Ralph. After our talk
about the worm and other things, he couldn't help guessing what my
feelings were, and he did his best to make me forget my sorrow. He said
that he didn't know anything about the Italian poets except the really
necessary ones, such as Dante and Petrarch, and as little as possible of
them. Then he asked about the American ones, and seemed interested in
Walt Whitman and Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley, all of whom I
can recite by the yard.
When we had scraped up every item of interest about Alfieri, as Papa
used to scrape up butter for his bread rather than take a fresh bit, we spun
on again to an old-fashioned hotel, where everybody rushed to meet us,
bowing, and looked ready to cry when they found we didn't want rooms.
"Perhaps the Countess would absolve you from your vow of temperance,
Terry, that you may have the exquisite delight of quaffing a little Asti
Spumante," said Sir Ralph to Mr. Barrymore, when we were at a table in a
large, cool dining-room.
"Why, of course," replied Mamma, and then opened her eyes wide when
both men laughed, and Mr. Barrymore intimated that Sir Ralph's head
would be improved by punching. Neither of them would take any of the
wine when it came, though it looked fascinating, fizzling out of beautiful
bottles decked with gold and silver foil, like champagne. It tasted like
champagne too, so far as I could tell; but perhaps I'm not a judge, as there
was never any wine except elderberry at home, and I've only had
champagne twice since I've been the child of a Countess. The Asti was nice
and sweet. I loved it, and so did Mamma, who said she would have it,
torrents of it, at the next dinner party she gave. But when Sir Ralph hurried
to tell her that it was cheap, she vacillated, worrying lest it shouldn't be
worthy to go with her crowns.
I don't know whether it was the Spumante, or the sunshine, as golden as
the wine, but I felt quite happy again when we drove out of Asti. I didn't

care at all that I wasn't sitting beside Mr. Barrymore, though I thought that I
probably should care again by and by. Mamma was happy, too, and Sir
Ralph amused us by planning a book to be called "Motoring for Experts, by
Experts." There were a good many Rules for Automobilists, such as:—
No. 1. Never believe you have got money enough with you when you
start. Whatever you think will be right, be sure you will want exactly twice
as much.
No. 2. Never suppose you have plenty of time, or plenty of room for your
luggage. Never get up in the morning at the time your chauffeur (not Mr.
Barrymore, but others) tells you he will have the car ready. Do not leave
your bed till the automobile is under your window, and do not pack the
things you have used for the night until the chauffeur has started your motor
for the third time.
No. 3. All invalids, except those suffering from pessimism, may hope to
be benefited by motoring; but pessimism in a mild form often becomes
fatally exaggerated by experience with automobiles, especially in
chauffeurs.
No. 4. Hoping that things which have begun to go wrong with a motor
will mend, should be like an atheist's definition of faith: "believing what
you know isn't true." If you think a bearing is hot, but hope against hope it 's
only oil you smell, make up your mind that it is the bearing.
No. 5. Never dream that you'll get anywhere sooner than you thought you
would, for it will always be later; or that a road may improve, for it is sure
to grow worse; or that your chauffeur, or anyone you meet, knows anything
about the country through which you are to pass, for every one will direct
you the wrong way.
No. 6. If your chauffeur tells you that your car will be ready in an hour, it
will be three, if not four; if he says that you can start on again that
afternoon, it will be to-morrow before lunch.
No. 7. Put not your trust in Princes, nor in the motor-cars of Princes.
No. 8. Cultivate your bump of presence of mind, and the automobile will
see that you have plenty of other bumps.

We hadn't got half to the end of the rules we had thought of, when things
began to happen. The road, which had been splendid all the way to Asti and
beyond, seemed suddenly to weary of virtue and turn eagerly to vice. It
grew rutty and rough-tempered, and just because misfortunes never come
singly, every creature we met took it into its head to regard us with horror.
Fear of us spread like an epidemic through the animal kingdom of the
neighbourhood. A horse drawing a wagon-load of earth turned tail, broke
his harness as if it had been of cobweb instead of old rope, and sprang
lightly as a gazelle with all four feet into another wagon just ahead. A
donkey, ambling gently along the road, suddenly made for the opposite
side, dragging his fruit-laden cart after him, and smashed our big acetylene
lamp into a brass pancake before Mr. Barrymore could stop. Children
bawled; women, old and young, ran screaming up embankments and tried
to climb walls at the bare sight of us in the distance; old men shook their
sticks; and for a climax we plunged deep into a tossing sea of cattle just
outside Alessandria.
It was market day, the Chauffeulier explained hastily, over his shoulder,
and the farmers and dealers who had bought creatures of any sort, were
taking them away. As far as we could see through a floating cloud of dust,
the long road looked like a picture of the animals' procession on their way
to the ark. Our automobile might have stood for the ark, only it is to be
hoped, for Noah's sake, after all he was doing for them, that the creatures
behaved less rudely at sight of it, novelty though it must have been.
Great white, classic-looking oxen whose horns ought to have been
wreathed with roses, but weren't, pawed the air, bellowing, or pranced down
into ditches, pulling their new masters with them. Calves ran here and there
like rabbits, while their mothers stood on their hind legs and pirouetted,
their biscuit-coloured faces haggard with despair.
Mamma said that never before had she given cows credit for such
sensitive spirits, but perhaps it was only Italian ones which were like that,
and if so she would not drink milk in Italy. She was very much frightened,
too; and talking of an automobile supplying bumps, her grip on Sir Ralph's
arm must have supplied a regular pattern of bruises, during the animal
episode.

But worse than the terrified beasts were the ones that were not terrified.
Those were the most stupidly stolid things on earth, or the most splendidly
reckless, we couldn't tell which; we knew only that they were irritating
enough to have made Job dance with rage, if he had had an automobile.
What they did was to wheel round at the sound of our horn, plant
themselves squarely in the centre of the road, and stand waiting to see what
we were, or else to trot comfortably along, without even taking the trouble
to glance over their shoulders. As the road was too narrow for us to pass on
either side, with an enormous ox lolling insolently in the middle, refusing to
budge an inch, or an absurd cow taking infinite pains to amble precisely in
front of the motor's nose, we were frequently forced to crawl for ten or
fifteen minutes at the pace of a snail, or to stop altogether and push a large
beast out of the way.
By the time we got into Alessandria, with its mighty maze of
fortifications, I was so weak from laughing that I giggled hysterically at
sight of the Prince standing in the doorway of a hotel which we were sailing
past. I pointed at him, as Maida had pointed at Vittorio Alfieri's tablet, and
Mamma gave a welcome meant to drown my giggle. Mr. Barrymore
stopped, and His Highness came to the side of the car.
"I was so sorry to miss you this morning," he said, "but after bidding you
au revoir last evening, I suddenly remembered that I had a friend in
Alessandria whom I had not seen for long, and it occurred to me that I
would pay him a visit. After all, I might have saved myself the pain, as I
found that he was away."
"At least you saved yourself the pain of a bad night," said I.
"Oh, that would have been nothing," he exclaimed. "Indeed, if there were
hardships to be borne, I would have preferred to share them with you."
I don't know what would have happened at that moment if I'd met
Maida's eyes, or Sir Ralph's eyes, or indeed, any eyes on the prowl; but all
avoided mine.
The Prince was expecting, or said that he was expecting Joseph to arrive
at any instant with the car. Then he would follow us, and as we planned to
stop at Pavia and he did not, he would be in Milan before us. We had

suffered so many delays at the hands, or rather the hoofs of our four-footed
brethren, that we had no time to waste in compliments with irrelevant
Princes, so we quickly sped on again as well as the uneven road would
allow, leaving behind the big fortified town which Mr. Barrymore said had
been built by the Lombard League (whatever that was) as a place of arms to
defy the tyranny of the Emperors.
Though the road was poor, except in bits, and gave us all the bumps
mentioned in Sir Ralph's rules, the country was lovely and loveable.
Grapes, mulberries, rice, and stuff called maize, which looked exactly like
our American corn, grew together like a happy family of sisters, and from
the hills dotted about, more thickly than Mamma's crowns on her toilet
things, looked down old feudal castles as melancholy as the cypresses that
stood beside them, like the sole friends of their adversity.
Of Tortona and Voghera I carried away only the ghost of an impression,
for we darted through their long main streets, deserted in the noon-tide
hour, and darted out again onto the straight white ribbon of road that was
leading us across all Northern Italy. It was so dusty that Mamma, Maida,
and I put on the motor-veils we had discarded after the first few hours of the
trip till now; things made of pongee silk, with windows of talc over our
eyes and little lace doors for our breath to pass through. It was fun when we
would slacken speed in some town or village, to see how the young Italians
tried to pry into the motor-masks' secrets and find out if we were pretty.
How much more they would have stared at Maida than at her two grey-clad
companions, if they had known! But behind the pongee and the talc, for
once our features could flaunt themselves on an equality with hers. Even
monks, brown of face and robe, gliding noiselessly through wide market
places in the blue shadows of hoary campaniles, searched those talc
windows of ours with a curiosity that was pathetic. Young officers, with
great dark eyes and slender figures tightly buttoned-up in grey-blue
uniforms, visibly preened themselves as the car with the three veiled ladies
would sweep round a corner; and really I think there must be something
rather alluring about a passing glance from a pair of eyes in a face that will
always remain a mystery. If I were a man I believe I should find it so.
Anyway, it's fun for a girl to guess how she would feel about things if she
were a man. I suppose though, we 're generally wrong.

After we 'd frightened enough horses and other domestic animals to
overstock the whole of Northern Italy and felt quite old in consequence
(considerably over thirteen), a sweet peace fell suddenly upon us. We had
passed the place where Napoleon's great battle was fought, and Voghera,
where we might have stopped to see the baths but didn't, because we were
all too hungry to be sincerely interested in anything absolutely unconnected
with meals. Then turning towards Pavia, we turned at the same moment into
Arcadia. There were no more beasts in our path, unless it was a squirrel or
two; there were no houses, no people; there was only quiet country, with a
narrow but deliciously smooth road, colonies of chestnut and acacia trees,
and tall growths of scented grasses and blossoming grain. It was more like a
by-path through meadows than an important road leading to a great town,
and Mr. Barrymore had begun to wonder aloud if he could possibly have
made a mistake at some cross-way, when we spun round a corner, and saw
before us a wide yellow river. It lay straight in front, and we had to pass to
the other side on the oddest bridge I ever saw; just old grey planks laid
close together on top of a long, long line of big black boats that moved up
and down with a lazy motion as the golden water of the Po flowed
underneath.
"This is a famous bridge," said the Chauffeulier; so Mamma hurried to
get out her camera and take a picture, while we picked our way daintily
over the wobbly boards at a foot pace; and another of the man at the far end,
who made us pay toll—so much for each wheel, so much for each
passenger. Maida never takes photographs. She says she likes better just to
keep a picture-gallery in her brain. Mamma always takes them, but as she
usually has three or four on the same film, making a jumble of Chicago
street-cars with Italian faces, legs, and sun-dials, as intricate as an Irish
stew, I don't see that in the end they will be much of an ornament to the
journal of travel we're all keeping.
"This is where the Po and the Ticino meet, so we're near Pavia," Mr.
Barrymore told us; and if our eyes brightened behind our masks, it wasn't so
much with interest in his information, as at the thought of lunch. For we
were to lunch at Pavia, before seeing the Certosa that Maida had been
talking about for hours with the Chauffeulier; and before us, as we crossed
the Ticino—bridged by a dear, old, arching, wooden-roofed thing supported

with a hundred granite columns—bubbled and soared a group of grey
domes and campaniles against a turquoise sky.
The roofed bridge, that seemed to be a lounging place and promenade,
led into a stately city, which impressed me as a regular factory for turning
out Italian history, so old it was, and so conscious, in a dignified kind of
way, of its own impressiveness. I felt sure that, if I could only remember, I
must have studied heaps of things about this place at school; and the town
was full of students who were probably studying them, with more profit,
now. They were very Italian, very good-looking, very young youths, indeed;
and they were all so interested in us that it seemed ungrateful not to pay
more attention to them than to their background. They grouped round our
automobile with a crowd of less interesting people, when we had stopped
before a hotel, and some of the students came so close in the hope of seeing
what was behind the motor-veils, that Maida was embarrassed, and Mamma
and I pretended to be.

XIV

A CHAPTER OF SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

Mamma's lunch was spoiled because, in pronouncing "campanile" for the
first time, she rhymed it with the river Nile, and realized what she had done
when some one else soon after inadvertently said it in the right way. She
didn't get over this for a long time, so the landlord profited, and must have
been pleased, as all the Italians at the table d'hôte took twice of everything.
Those who were not officers were middle-aged men with fat smiles which
made them look like what I call "drummers," and Sir Ralph wastes time in
naming commercial travellers. He and Mr. Barrymore explained that, at all
these quiet provincial hotels with their domed roofs and painted ceilings,
their long tables and great flasks of wine hung in metal slings, more than
half the customers come every day to eat steadily through cheap monthly
subscriptions.
"They can live like fighting cocks for next to nothing," said Sir Ralph. "If
The Riviera Sun ever suffers an eclipse, I shall probably end my days in a

place like this, Pavia for choice, because then I can make my friends at
home believe that I live here to worship the Certosa."
Now to make up for her slip about the campanile, Mamma began to talk
about the Certosa as if it were an intimate friend of hers; but though she
hurried to get out the word while Sir Ralph's pronunciation of it still echoed
under the painted dome, her first syllable was shaped so much like a "Shirt"
that I had to take a drink of water quickly. It is a funny thing, if people have
no ear for music, and can't tell one tune from another, they don't seem to
hear foreign words rightly, and so, when they speak, their pronunciation is
like "Yankee Doodle" disguised as "God Save the King." It is that way with
Mamma; but luckily for me, Papa had an Ear.
We had to pass through "Pavia of the Hundred Towers" after a look at the
grand old Castello, and go out into Arcadian country again to reach the
Certosa. Our way lay northward now instead of east, beside a canal bright
as crystal, and blue as sapphire because it was a mirror for the sky. Then,
we turned abruptly down a little side road, which looked as if it led nowhere
in particular, and suddenly a wonderful thing loomed up before us.
I don't know much about churches, but there are some things which one
is born knowing, I suppose; such as the difference between really great
things and those that don't touch greatness. One wouldn't need to be told by
a guide-book that the Certosa of Pavia is great—as great as anything ever
made, perhaps. Even "little Beechy Kidder" felt that at first glance; and then
—there was nothing to say. It was too beautiful to chatter about. But it did
seem strange that so pure and lovely a building could have owed its
existence to a crime. I had heard Mr. Barrymore telling Mamma that it was
originally founded in thirteen hundred and something, by the first Duke of
Milan with the view of taking off the attention of Heaven from a murder he
had committed—quite in his own family—which got rid of his father-in-
law, and all the father-in-law's sons and daughters at the same time. No
wonder it took a whole Certosa to atone for it, with statues of the founder
dotted about, presenting models of the church to the Virgin; or praying with
clasped hands; or having his funeral procession in great pomp. But I didn't
like his face; and judging from its expression, I shouldn't be surprised if he
were glad the Certosa had been taken away from the monks to be made a
national monument, so that more people could glorify him. It wasn't until I

had seen a great many other things, however, that I made acquaintance with
his Dukeship Gian Galeazzo Visconti (it is always easy to remember
wicked peoples' names), for at first sight there was only the wonderful
gateway, with a glimpse of the dazzling marble church, a splendid great
dome, and some bewildering towers glittering in the sun.
Mr. Barrymore hired a youth to guard the automobile and the dog while
we went in, strange figures for such a place, in our motoring get-up. I didn't
know before what exquisite stuff terra-cotta could be, but had despised it in
America as the thing cheap statuettes are made of. Now, when I saw it
mellowed by centuries, combined with marble, and moulded into arches
and cornices, and a thousand marvellous ornamentations, I made up my
mind that I would never have a house of my own unless it could have terra-
cotta window and door-frames, and chimneys, and everything else besides
that could possibly be made of terra-cotta.
But the cloisters, great and small, were better than anything else; better
than the façade; better than the marble church, with all the lovely little side
chapels; better than anything I ever saw; and I walked about alone, pleased
with myself because, in spite of my ignorance, I had enough sense of
appreciation to be happy. Still, I wasn't sorry when Sir Ralph left Mamma
listening with Maida, to things Mr. Barrymore was saying about moulded
brick and terra-cotta architecture in North Italy, to join me.
"Terry says there's something in the world more beautiful than this," he
remarked.
"I suppose he's thinking of Maida," said I.
"Not at all. Probably, if you could see into his mind you'd discover that
he's wishing you hadn't wandered away from his orations. The thing which
he considers more beautiful is the cloister of Monreale, at Palermo, in
Sicily. But, then, this isn't the part of Italy Terry loves best. He won't begin
to shine till he gets to Verona; and even Verona he calls only a charming inn
where the world's great travellers have left mementoes of their passage,
rather than a true Italian town stamped with the divine genius of Italy. When
he's at Venice, he'll be at home. You'll like Terry in Venice."

"The question is, will he like me in Venice?" I asked, looking out of the
corner of my eye at the tall Chauffeulier in his leather-coat, showing a
heavenly white marble doorway to Maida, and Mamma.
"Of course he will. You mustn't be discouraged by his manner. If only he
thought you were poor!"
"Shall I intimate to him that Maida is very rich?"
"No, no. I wouldn't deceive him about that. Let well alone. All will come
right in time."
"Meanwhile, I suppose I must put up with you?"
"If you can. Unless I bore you. Would you rather I left you alone?"
"No-o. There's just enough of you to fill an aching void," said I, pertly.
But he didn't seem to mind at all, and was very kind in telling about
frescoes and things, although he calls himself ignorant. He has forgotten the
boast in his advertisement perhaps, or he's trying to live up to it as well as
he can when his chauffeur isn't available.
We stopped so long at the Certosa that the sun had gone far down the
west as we walked through the beautiful, strange gateway to the roadside
resting-place of our car.
Where crowds come from in the country is as mysterious as where pins
and hairpins go to; but anyhow, there was a wide ring of people round the
automobile, in which our hired caretaker sat gazing condescendingly on the
throng. When we arrived on the scene, with our hands full of scents made
and bottled by the banished monks, quaint pottery, and photographs of
frescoes, general interest was transferred to us, but only for a moment. Even
Maida's beauty failed as an attraction beside the starting-handle of the car,
when the Chauffeulier turned it.
"Don't you see many motors here?" asked Sir Ralph of our deposed
guard, and he shook his head. "Not one a month," he said, "though they say
that some of the rich men in Milan use them. I do not know where they go."
Almost as he spoke a big one shot by, heading for Alessandria and—who
knows but for Cuneo? When we came to think, it was the first we had seen

since Ventimiglia, though on the French side of the Riviera the things had
been a pest to everybody—who hadn't one.
As we started, the sinking sun turned a million tiny clouds floating up
from behind the world into rose-pink marabout feathers, which by-and-by
were silvered round their curly edges by a wonderful light kindled
somewhere in the east. It grew brighter and brighter as the rose-coloured
plumes first took fire down at the western horizon, and then burned to
ruddy ashes. When half the sky was silver up came floating a huge pearl,
glistening white, and flattened out of the perfect round on one side, like two
or three of the biggest pearls on Mamma's long rope.
Even in America I never saw the sunset-glow so quickly quenched by a
white torrent of moonlight. But on this night it was not white; it was soft
and creamy, like mother-of-pearl. And as the opal gleam of the sky
darkened to deep amethyst the stars came out clear and sparkling and
curiously distinct one from the other, like great hanging lamps of silver,
diamond-crusted.
All the world was bathed in this creamy light, while the sky scintillated
with jewels like the flashing of a spangled fan, as we drove into the
outskirts of Milan.
It had been lucky for us that there was a moon, as we had a crumpled
brass waffle in the place of our big lamp; but the effect of the town lights,
orange-yellow mingling with the white radiance pouring down from the
sky, was wonderful and mysterious on arched gateways, on dark façades of
tall buildings, on statues, on columns, on fountains. Coming in out of the
country stillness, the noise and rush of the big city seemed appalling. Fierce
electric trams dashed clanging and flashing in all directions, making a
pandemonium worse than Chicago or the streets of Paris. Horses and carts
darted across the glittering tracks under our noses, bicyclists spun between
our car and lumbering hotel omnibuses, and hadn't an inch to spare. In the
middle of one huge street was something that looked like a Roman ruin,
with every shadow sharp as a point of jet in the confused blending of light.
Brazen bells boomed, mellow chimes fluted, church clocks mingled their
voices, each trying to tell the hour first; and to add to the bewildering effect

of our entry, drivers and people on foot waved their arms, yelling wildly
something I couldn't understand.
Mr. Barrymore understood, however, and only just in time to save an
accident, for it seemed that we were on the wrong side of the road.
Suddenly and arbitrarily it was the rule to keep on the left side instead of
the right, and the Chauffeulier shot across before a tram, approaching at the
speed of a train, could run us down.
"That's the worst of this part of Italy," I heard him shout over the din to
Maida. "Any town that chooses makes a different rule for itself and its
suburbs, and then expects strangers to know by instinct just where and
when it changes."
It was like being shot out of a catapult from the Inferno straight to
Paradise, as Sir Ralph said, when suddenly we saved ourselves from the
hurly-burly, flashing into a noble square with room for a thousand street-
cars and as many automobiles to browse together in peace and harmony.
A mass of glimmering white towers and pinnacles, the Cathedral rose, a
miracle of beauty in the flood of moonlight that turned grey into white, old
marble into snow, and gave to each of the myriad carvings the lace-like
delicacy of frost-work.
"I wanted you to see the Duomo first by moonlight," said Mr. Barrymore,
after we had sat still, gazing up for some moments, with even the car
motionless and silent. "To-morrow morning you can come again for the
detail, and spend as much time as you like inside, for I hope it won't take us
many hours to run to Bellagio; but you will never forget to-night's
impression."
"I shall never forget anything that has happened, or that we've seen on
this trip," Maida answered, in a voice that told me how much she felt her
words. But if she had anything more to say the motor impolitely drowned it,
and we were whirled away again via pandemonium, to quite a grand hotel.
The first person we met in a big, square hall full of wicker chairs and
tables, was Prince Dalmar-Kalm, in evening dress, looking as calm as if he
had never heard of an automobile. He flung agreeable smiles at Maida and
me, but his real welcome was for his "chère Comtesse," and she was

delighted, poor dear, to be made much of at the expense of two girls, one a
beauty.
"I arrived over an hour ago," he said, "very dusty, a little tired, a good
deal hungry; but, of course, I would not have dreamed of dining without
you."
"Did you get in on the car, or on the cars, this time?" I asked.
"But certainly in the car," said he, reproachfully. "Joseph met me at
Alessandria early in the afternoon, and once started, we went as the wind
goes—a splendid pace, without a single breakdown. I passed your
automobile at Pavia, and thought of joining you at the Certosa, where you
no doubt were at the time; but I decided that it would be more satisfactory
to keep on and greet you here. I knew you would take my advice, as you
promised, Comtesse, and come to this hotel, so I ventured to have my place
laid at your table and order a few extras which I thought you would like.
Have pity, I beg, on a starving man, and make yourselves ready in twenty
minutes."
"But Mr. Barrymore can't join us then," Maida objected to Mamma, in a
low voice. "He has the car to look after before he can dress, and after the
good day he has given us wouldn't it be ungrateful to begin without him?"
"My dear girl, when all's said and done, he is the chauffeur," replied
Mamma, at her worst under His Highness's influence. "It would be a pretty
thing if we were to keep the Prince waiting for him. You can come down
later if you like."
"Very well, I will," said Maida, very pink as to her cheeks and bright as
to her eyes. I didn't think she would dare keep her word, for fear Mr.
Barrymore might believe she cared too much about him; but just because
he's poor and she imagines he is snubbed, she will do anything. Everybody
except the Chauffeulier had been at table for a quarter of an hour, and hors
d'œuvres and soup, and fish, had given place to beef, when Maida came in,
dressed in white, and looking beautiful. As she appeared at one door Mr.
Barrymore appeared at another, and was just in time to pull out her chair
instead of letting the waiter do it.

The Chauffeulier, seeing we had ploughed through half the menu,
wouldn't have bothered with soup or fish, but Maida insisted on having
both, piping hot too, though she never cares what she eats; so the belated
one got as good a dinner as anybody. Whether he realized that Maida had
waited for him I don't know, but he was so unusually talkative and full of
fun that I longed to "vipe" somebody, feeling as I did that his cheerfulness
was due to Maida's kindness. Unfortunately there was no excuse for viping;
but I suddenly thought how I could throw a little cold water. "Have you
noticed, Mr. Barrymore," I asked, "that my cousin Maida never wears
anything except black, or grey, or white?"
He looked at her. "Yes, I have noticed," he said, with an expression in his
eyes which added that he'd noticed everything concerning her. "But then,"
he went on, "I haven't had time to see her whole wardrobe."
"If you had, it would be the same," said I. "It's a pity, I think, for blue and
pink and pale green, and a lot of other things would be so becoming. But
she's got an idea into her head that because, when she goes back home a
few months from now, she will enter that old con—"
"Beechy, please!" broke in Maida, her face almost as pink as an
American Beauty rose.
"Well you are going to, aren't you?" I flew out at her. "Or have you
changed your mind—already?"
"I think you are very unkind," she said, in a low voice, turning white
instead of red, and Mr. Barrymore bit his lip, looking as if he would rather
shake me than eat his dinner. Then all at once I was dreadfully sorry for
hurting Maida, partly because Mr. Barrymore glared, partly because she is
an angel; but I would have died in agony sooner than say so, or show that I
cared, though I had such a lump in my throat I could scarcely swallow. Of
course everybody thought I had turned sulky, for I shrugged my shoulders
and pouted, and didn't speak another word. By and by I really did begin to
sulk, because if one puts on a certain expression of face, after a while one
finds thoughts that match it stealing into one's mind. I grew so cross with
myself and the whole party, that when Mamma said she was tired and
headachy, and would go to our sitting-room if Maida didn't object, I

determined that whatever happened those two shouldn't have the
satisfaction of a tête-à-tête.
Every one had finished except Maida and the Chauffeulier, who had only
got as far as the chicken and salad stage; and when Mamma proposed
going, a look came over the Prince's face which I translated to myself as,
"Rien à faire ici." Since our talk in the garden at San Dalmazzo, he has
given himself no more trouble for Maida or me; all is for Mamma, at least,
when she is present; so I wasn't surprised when he said that he had several
telegrams to send off, and would excuse himself.
"But about to-morrow," he exclaimed, pausing when he had risen. "Shall
you stop to see the Cathedral, and something of Milan by daylight, before
going on to the Lake of Como?"
"Oh, yes," Maida answered. "Mr. Barrymore says we shall have plenty of
time."
"He is quite right," replied the Prince so graciously that I instantly asked
myself what little game he was playing now. "It is not far from here to
Bellagio, where you intend to stop. You will go, of course, by way of the
Brianza?" (This to the Chauffeulier.)
"I suppose we must," answered Mr. Barrymore. "I don't know anything at
first-hand about the road, but at the garage they tell me motors occasionally
do it. The gradients are steep according to the route-book, but unless there's
something worse than meets the eye there, our car will get through all
right."
"I have already driven over the whole length of that road," said the
Prince. "Not en automobile, but, no doubt, what a couple of horses can do,
your twelve horse-power car can do better. As for me, I have been in Milan
many a time, and its sights are an old story. I will therefore go on early to-
morrow morning, leaving your party to follow; for I have acquaintances
who live in a charming villa near Bellagio—the Duke and Duchess of
Gravellotti—and I wish to ask them as soon as possible to call on the
Countess."
Mamma was delighted at the prospect of receiving a call from a real, live
Duke and Duchess, so she shed rays of gratitude upon the Prince, and

trotted out both her dimples.
"Come, Beechy," she said. "We'll go now, as Maida doesn't mind."
"I haven't finished my nuts and raisins, and I want some of those marrons
glacés afterwards," said I. "I'll stay and eat them, and chaperon Maida. I
guess she needs it more than you, Mamma, though you're both an awful
responsibility for me."
That sent Mamma away with a vexed rustle of three separate layers of
silk. The Prince walked after her, just far enough behind not to step on her
train (he isn't the kind of man who would ever tear a woman's dress, though
he might pull her reputation to pieces), and Maida, Mr. Barrymore, Sir
Ralph, and I were left together.
Both men had jumped up when Mamma rose, but they sat down again
when she had turned her back, the Chauffeulier (presumably) to finish his
dinner, Sir Ralph to keep me in countenance. But there was no more gaiety.
My douche of cold water had quenched Mr. Barrymore's Irish spirits, and
Maida was depressed. I was the "spoil-sport;" but I "stuck it out," as Sir
Ralph would have said, to the bitter end.
When we all streamed into the big hall there sat Mamma in a corner with
the Prince, instead of having gone up-stairs to nurse her headache. What
was worse, she was letting the man teach her to smoke a cigarette in
imitation of some Russian ladies in another corner. They were puffing away
as calmly as they breathed, because it was the same thing with them; but
Mamma was far from calm. She was flirting with all her might, and feeling
tremendously pretty and popular.
She didn't see me until I had stalked up behind her. "Mamma!" I said, in a
tone of freezing virtue. "Four years ago, you spanked me for that. And if
Papa were here now, what would he do to you?"
She started as if a mouse had sprung at her—and Mamma is dreadfully
afraid of little innocent mice. Then she began to explain and apologize as if
she had been thirteen, and I—well, I'll say twenty-nine.
I foresee that I am going to have trouble with Mamma.

PART III

TOLD BY THE COUNTESS

XV

A CHAPTER OF PITFALLS

A woman finds out a great many things about herself when she is
automobiling. Or is it automobiling that makes new qualities grow? I'm not
sure; but then I'm so different in many ways from what I used to be that I
hardly know myself any more.
Beechy would tell me that it's all owing to Madame Rose-Blanche of
Chicago; but it isn't really. She changed me on the outside; she couldn't
change my disposition—except that one is happier when one's pretty than
when one's a "trump," as the English ladies say.
But I used to hate being out-of-doors; it seemed such a waste of time.
And when poor Mr. Kidder was alive, I often thought that if I could be free
to do exactly as I liked for a month, I'd spend it lying on a sofa among a pile
of cushions, with a big box of candy, and dozens of new English society
novels. Yet now that I am free to do as I like, not for one month, but for all
the time, I go gadding around the world at twenty or thirty miles an hour
(they feel like twice as many) in an automobile.
However, it's just as if I had walked right into a novel myself, to be one
of the heroines. I've read a good many novels with young widows for
heroines; in fact, I prefer them, as it's so pleasant to put yourself in the
heroine's place while you read, especially if you're interested in the hero.
In my novel that I've stepped into, there are three heroes if I count Mr.
Barrymore, and I suppose I may (though he's only the chauffeur, as the

Prince often reminds me), for Beechy says that Sir Ralph Moray tells her he
comes from a very fine family.
At first I didn't know but Sir Ralph would be the real hero, for by an odd
coincidence he is twenty-nine, which is my age—if it's true, as Madame
says, that a woman has a right to count herself no older than she looks.
Besides, I'm very partial to the English; and though I was a little
disappointed, after seeing that advertisement of his, to learn that the "titled
Englishman" owning a motor-car, was no higher than a baronet, I thought
he might do. But somehow, though kind and attentive, he has never shown
the same warm interest that Prince Dalmar-Kalm takes in me, and then it is
so romantic that I should be buying an estate with one of the titles
belonging to the Prince's family. I can't help feeling now that the Prince,
and no one but the Prince, is meant for the hero of this story of which I am
the heroine. After all, what title sounds so well for a woman as "Princess"?
It might be royalty, and I'm sure it would be admired in Denver.
The change in me may be partly owing to the excitement of realizing that
I'm in a grander sphere than any I have ever entered before, or dared hope
to enter, and that this may be but a kind of ante-chamber to something still
grander. Of course I might have gone on this trip in the Prince's automobile,
if he had known in time that I had a fancy to try motoring, but perhaps it's
better as it is. I like being independent, and it's just as well to have several
men in the party, so that no one among them can think he's going to have
everything his own way.
Who, that knew me a few years—or even a few months—ago, would
have believed I could be perfectly happy sitting all day in a cramped
position in an automobile, covered with dust or wet with sudden showers;
tired, hungry, putting up with all sorts of discomforts by the way, and half
the time frightened out of my wits by appalling precipices or terrific wild
beasts? But happy I am, happier than I've ever been, though I keep asking
myself, or Maida, or Beechy, "Why is it so nice?"
Maida says she doesn't know why, she only knows it is, and much more
than nice. "The Quintessence of Joy-of-Life," that is what she has named
the sensation; and as Maida uses it, it is sure to be all right, though I must
admit that to me it sounds almost improper.

Then there is another thing which strikes me as queer about myself and
the two girls since we've been travelling in an automobile. We used to be
glad when a train journey was over, and thankful to arrive at almost any
place, whether it was beautiful or not, but now we're always in a perfect
fever to go on—on—on. We shoot into some marvellous old town, that we
would once have thought worth coming hundreds of miles just to see; and
instead of wanting to get out of the motor-car and wander about, visiting all
the churches or museums or picture-galleries, we think what a pity to spoil
the record of so many miles in so many hours. If we stop long of course it
brings down the average, and that seems nothing less than a calamity,
though why on earth we should care so much, or care at all (considering we
have our whole future before us) is a mystery. Even Maida, who is so fond
of history, and countries that have made history in dim old ages, feels this.
She thinks there is a motoring microbe that gets into your blood, just as
other microbes do, so that it's a disease, only instead of being disagreeable
it's almost dangerously pleasant. You know you ought to pause and do
justice to a place, says Maida, but the motoring microbe wriggles and
writhes against the decision of your reason, and you have to use violent
measures before you can dull it into a state of coma for a while.
Mr. Barrymore tries to explain this phenomenon by arguing that, of all
modern means of getting about the world, motoring is in itself the most
enjoyable. The mere journey is as good a part of your tour as any, if not
better; and that's the reason why, according to him, you never have the same
longing to "get there" or "stay there" (wherever "there" may be) that you
have when you travel by train, or boat or carriage. It is the thrill of flying
through the air at such a rate that intoxicates you and makes you feel you
are conquering the world as you go. Perhaps he's right. But after all, reasons
don't signify much. The principal thing is that you do feel so, and it is
lovely.
I was so tired after that long day from Cuneo to Milan that I wouldn't get
up to go and look at the cathedral. I'd seen it by moonlight, and it couldn't
be better by day, so I just lay in bed, and made a comfortable toilet
afterwards without hurrying, which was a nice change, and gave me time to
use my electric face-roller.

When the girls came back, they were raving about magnificent statues,
aisles, columns, windows, vistas, gargoyles, and saints' bodies in gorgeous
shrines of silver. Beechy had apparently forgotten that she'd been vexed
with me over night, and I was relieved, for she will not agree with me about
the Prince, and I don't know what I should do if she really did carry out any
of her threats. If she should put on the long frock she had before Mr. Kidder
died (which she says she's got with her, locked up in her portmanteau), and
should fix her hair on top of her head, that would be just about the end of
my fun, once and for all. But she is such a dear girl at heart, in spite of the
peculiarities which she has inherited from poor Simon, I can't think (if I
manage her pretty well) that she would do anything to spoil my first real
good time and hurt my feelings.
We had an early lunch, and started about one with such a crowd outside
the hotel to see us go away, that we made up our minds there must be
precious few automobiles in Milan, big and busy city as it is.
The whole party was so taken up with the Cathedral, that for a while they
could talk of nothing but Gian Galeazzo Visconti (who seemed to have
spent his life either in murdering his relations or founding churches), or
marble from the valley of Tosa, or German architects who had made the
building differ from any other in Italy, or the impulse Napoleon had given
to work on the façade, or the view from the roof all the way to Como with
the Apennines and lots of other mountains whose names I'd never heard; but
presently as we got out into the suburbs the road began to be so awful that
no one could talk rationally on any subject.
We three Americans weren't quite so disgusted as Sir Ralph and Mr.
Barrymore seemed to be, for we are used to roads being pretty bad outside
large cities; but the gentlemen were very cross, and exclaimed that it was a
disgrace to Milan. Our poor automobile had to go bumping and grinding
along through heaps of sharp stones, more like the dry bed of a mountain
torrent than a road; and my nerves were on edge when Mr. Barrymore told
us not to be frightened if we heard an explosion like a shot, because it
would only be one of the tyres bursting. No pretty little ladylike
automobile, said he, could possibly hope to come through without breaking
her bones; only fine, manly motor-cars, with noble masculine tyres, could

wisely attempt the feat; but ours would be all right, even if a tyre did go, for
the damage could be repaired inside half an hour.
Still, the thought of the possible explosion that might go off right under
my ears at any instant kept me in a state of suspense for a long distance—
about thirty kilometres, Mr. Barrymore said; and then the way improved so
much that I settled down again. Even the scenery had been ugly up to that
time, as if to match the road, but it began to change for the better at
precisely the same moment.
The only interesting things we had seen so far were peasants playing
bowls in the villages through which we passed (for it was a fête day) and
the curious carts with wooden frames for awnings arched over them, which
gave an effect as if the passengers were crowding inside the white ribs of
some skeleton monster. Such pretty women and children were in the carts,
too; the women like beautiful, dark madonnas with their soft eyes looking
out from under graceful head-draperies of black cashmere, or blue or
yellow silk, glorious in colour as the sun touched it.
They didn't seem to mind the bumping over the stones, though the carts
were springless, but then, they had no hats lolloping over to one side, or
stays to pinch in their waists and make them uncomfortable as I had, though
—as Beechy says—my daytime motoring waist is inches bigger round than
my evening waist.
I was glad when I could put my hat straight again, once for all, and have
time to enjoy the scenery through which, as I told myself, the Prince must
lately have passed on his car, perhaps thinking of me, as he had promised.
Behind us was the great plain in which Milan lies, and before us soared
into the air a blue chain of mountains, looking mysterious and inaccessible
in the far distance, though we were sweeping on towards them, charging
down hill after hill into a more exquisite landscape than I could have
imagined, enchantingly Italian, with dark old châteaux crowning eminences
above fertile fields; pretty brown villages on hillsides clustering round
graceful campaniles (a word I've practised lately with several other difficult
ones); green-black cypresses (which Maida says seem like sharp notes in
music); and wonderful, flat-topped trees that Mr. Barrymore calls umbrella
pines.

We were now in a region known as the Brianza, which is, it appears, a
summer resort for the Milanese, who come to escape the hot weather of the
plains, and find the breezes that blow up from the lakes—breezes so
celebrated for their health-giving qualities that nobody who lives in the
Brianza can die under ninety. There were a great many inviting looking,
quaint farmhouses, and big cottages scattered about, where the people from
Milan are taken as lodgers.
I had forgotten my nervousness about the tyres, when suddenly a queer
thing happened. There was a wild flapping and beating as if a big bird had
got caught in the engine, while something strange and horrifying kept
leaping up and down with every revolution of the wheels, like a huge black
snake racing along with us and trying for a chance to pounce. It was so like
a weird and horrid dream that I shrieked; but in a few seconds Mr.
Barrymore had stopped the car. "We are in luck," said he.
"Why?" I asked. "Have we killed the Serpent-thing—whatever it is?"
Then he laughed. "The Serpent-thing is the outer covering of the tyre on
one of our driving wheels," he explained. "And we're in luck because, after
that ghastly road it isn't the tyre itself. This is nothing; I'll tear it off, and the
good old tyre's so sound that we can go on with its skin off, until Bellagio,
when I'll put on a new one before we start again. It has cracked the mud
guard in its gyrations, though fortunately not enough to make it unsafe for
the luggage."
In about three minutes we were teuf-teufing on once more; but we hadn't
been going for ten minutes when, half-way up a hill, the motor gave a
weary sigh, and moved languidly, as if it were very tired and discouraged,
yet trying its best to obey. We were on the outskirts of a village called Erba,
and the automobile crawled on until it saw a little inn, with a lot of peasants
sitting in the cool shade of an arbour, drinking wine; there it stopped, which
was wonderfully intelligent of it.
"The poor animal wants water after its hard work," said Mr. Barrymore;
so he got down and asked a boy to bring some, ordering at the same time a
siphon of fizzy lemonade for everybody. While we were sipping the cold,
sweet stuff, Mr. Barrymore burst out laughing, and we all looked up to see
what was the matter. There was that silly boy bringing a pint of water, in a

carafe, to pour into the tank of the motor; and he seemed quite surprised
and disgusted when he was told to go back and fetch about twenty litres
more.
The automobile had thoughtfully slowed down in the one bit of shade
there was; still it was tremendously hot, and we realized that it was only the
motion of the car which had kept us from finding it out before. We should
have been miserable if we hadn't changed our tailor motoring-costumes for
the holland dresses and coats which we'd bought ready-made at the last
moment, in Monte Carlo. In spite of them, however, we were glad when the
water was in, and the motor-car's heart began to beat again. Then down
went ours, for after a dozen throbs the comforting sound grew faint and
presently stopped. "There's no proper explosion," Mr. Barrymore
announced in a puzzled way. "I'm afraid the petrol I bought in Milan wasn't
very good; the Italian never is as good as the French, though it's more
expensive. But perhaps it's only 'tired.' I'll empty it out and put in some
fresh."
He did, but the poor automobile was not revived by the change; and Mr.
Barrymore began to peer about in the inner workings of the thing to see
what had gone wrong. He examined the bougie, whatever that was, and
cleaned the aspiration valve with petrol, all of which took time; and what
with the heat, and the noise the peasants in the inn-garden made with their
boules, I began to get the feeling that Beechy calls "caterpillars in the
spine." Just when they were crawling up and down my marrow, however,
Mr. Barrymore cried out, "Eureka! it's the pump."
This exclamation didn't convey much to me, but it was encouraging that
he seemed pleased; and when he had adjusted the friction roller against a
fly-wheel, or something queer and ticklish of that sort, we flew away from
Erba at a splendid pace, as if the car had decided to let bygones be bygones.
We ran beautifully along a smooth and level road that was trying to make
up for its evil past, by the side of a small but pretty lake, and it seemed as if
our troubles were over at last. But the astonishment on the faces of the
peasants who stared from doorways in a couple of very picturesque villages
through which we drove, was ominous. Evidently they had scarcely ever
seen a motor-car, for they glared at us as if we were antediluvian animals.

Running out of the second village, Asso, we found ourselves climbing a
road which was not only as steep as the side of a house, but so narrow that,
if we had met anything, it couldn't possibly have passed us. The way was
wild and eerie; we could not tell what might come beyond each corner, and
we could see nothing but the roughly climbing road, with its embankments,
except as we looked back and down into vast spaces of strange beauty, like
fleeting scenes in dreams.
"I'm sure we must have come wrong. This can't be the way that the
Prince meant," I said. "It's more like a track for goats than automobiles."
"We have come right according to directions," answered Mr. Barrymore,
"but I must say, I rather wonder at the directions. According to Dalmar-
Kalm's account, the road was fairly good. I can hardly think he risked this
route for his own car."
"Is there another he could have taken?" inquired Sir Ralph.
"Yes. He could have driven along the lake as far as Varenna, and then
sent his car across to Bellagio on one of the steamers."
"My prophetic soul, which I inherit from a long line of Scotch ancestors,
tells me that's what he did," said Sir Ralph. Then he added in a lower voice,
"It would be like him." But I heard, and wondered if, after all, he were a
little jealous of the Prince?
"Whether he did or not, I'm glad we didn't," remarked Beechy. "This
looks like being an adventure; and none of us are old enough to have
outgrown our love of adventure, are we, Mamma?"
Of course, I had to say "no," though I'd been on the point of asking
whether it wouldn't be possible for us to go back. We had just come into a
ragged hamlet, and there was literally no more than room for us to scrape
through between the poor stone houses which leaned over us on either side
the steep, roughly cobbled road. Six inches less, and we would have been in
danger of slicing off our mud-guards, upon which lay a lot of our luggage
as if on shelves. My heart was in my mouth, and I said so to Beechy; but
she only laughed, and replied pertly—even for her—that she hoped it was a
good fit, or should she pat me on the back?

Instead of smoothing out to a level again, as I hoped against hope that it
would, the road grew steeper with each quarter-mile, so steep that it seemed
as if the car must take to running down hill backwards. But always it went
forging steadily up on the strongest speed with a dependable, bumbling
noise, never once faltering, though the Col di Tenda wasn't as steep a
gradient as this. Certainly, after one's faith in the car has stopped wobbling,
there was a kind of wild pleasure in the experience, especially in looking
over one's shoulder at the valleys lying far below us, cut deep into the green
heart of the mountain, as if they had been hollowed out of an emerald.
Suddenly the road gave a twist, and instead of prancing in the air, lay down
at the feet of a grim, grey town, as a dog lies down at the feet of his master.
Mr. Barrymore stopped to see if the motor had got hot or burst a blood-
vessel or anything; but all was well, and when we had slipped on our thick
coats, those who had got out to walk the steepest hills—Sir Ralph and
Beechy—climbed in again. We had been a long time creeping up, longer
than Mr. Barrymore had calculated, and the chill of evening was in the air.
Besides, we were in the midst of the mountains now, and it was hard to
realize that we had ever felt too hot. As we drove along the edge of ridge, a
keen wind caught us. I shivered and felt as if there were no more thickness
to me than a paper doll; but I shouldn't have dared to tell Beechy that, or she
would have laughed, for I haven't got my weight down yet to less than a
hundred and fifty pounds. There was a gnawing just under my new gold
belt-buckle with the cat's-eyes on it, as if the cats had claws as well as eyes,
and I remembered that it was ages since lunch. Maida and Beechy never
appear to be hungry when they motor, though, so I wouldn't complain, for
fear it might seem old and frumpy to think of such material things. But five
minutes later being cold or hungry mattered as little as it would in a
shipwreck.
The first thing that happened was a view—a view so unexpected and so
superb that I gaped at it with my mouth open. So far away, so far below,
that it was as if we looked down from a balloon sailing among the clouds,
two lakes were set like sapphires in a double ring of mountains, whose
greens and blues and purples were dimmed by a falling veil of twilight. But
through the veil, white villas gleamed on the dark hillsides, like pearls that
had fallen down the mountain-side, scattering as they fell; and above, in the
great pale dome of the sky, a faint silver light pulsed and quivered, like the

water-lights that one sees on the wall of a room near the river. It was a
search-light sent out by the moon, which was en panne somewhere on its
way up the horizon, Maida said; and it was she who put some of those other
thoughts into my mind; but my head didn't hold any of them long at that
time, because of the next thing that happened.
It was not a view; it was a plunge that we took down into the view.
We had come up one side of a house to get to this place on the roof, and
now we began to slither down the other side, which was worse, a hundred
times worse.
Who was it who said, "A horse, my kingdom for a horse?" I think it must
have been Richard the Third in Shakspere's play, which I went to see once
in Denver, at a matinée, and Mr. Kidder scolded me afterwards for wasting
my time and his money. Well, I never sympathized with any one so much in
life as I sympathized with that poor man (I mean Richard, not Mr. Kidder)
at this moment. I knew just how he must have felt, though of course the
circumstances were somewhat different, automobiles not having been
invented in those days, and he being on the stage, with a battle going on
behind the scenes, where it was cheaper to produce, I suppose.
But I would have given my money, and even my title, for a kind, gentle
horse (the older the better) instead of a motor-car. A horse, at his worst,
doesn't want to kill himself, while an automobile doesn't care what happens
to it; and in these dreadful moments the only possible comfort would have
been in sitting behind a thing with an instinct of self-preservation.
As it was, I sat with every muscle tense and a feeling as if my hair was
standing up so straight on my head that every hairpin must fall out. But
what was a hairpin more or less, or even a "transformation" a little awry, to
a woman about to become a corpse? I held my breath, as if to let it go
meant to lose it forever, while that automobile walked down the mountain
exactly as a fly walks down a long expanse of wall-paper, making a short
turn for every flower in the pattern.
There was a flower every other second in our pattern, which meant a
sharp turn for the fly; and I could have slapped Mr. Barrymore for talking
on, as if we weren't in peril enough to be prayed for in church, about the

Lake of Como and the Lake of Lecco, and Bellagio (where we were going)
on the promontory. Where we were going, indeed! Our only hope, clearly,
was in heaven; though I should have liked just to see my new estate in
Dalmatia first.
I had to let my breath go at last, and while snatching another, I managed
to gasp that I would get out and walk. But that imp of a Beechy (who must,
I sometimes think, be a changeling) hugged my arm and said that I wasn't to
be "an old woman, like the Prince"; that this experience was too blissful to
be spoiled by anybody's nerves, and no one was going to be hurt, not even
the little dog from Airole.
"How do you know?" I panted.
"Oh, because I do. And besides, I put my faith in our Chauffeulier."
"You had better put your trust in Providence," I said severely.
"It hasn't come to that yet," was her flippant reply; and I shouldn't have
been surprised if white bears had come out to devour her, for those
mountain fastnesses looked capable of bears or worse.
"Don't forget this is the road the Prince recommended," Beechy went on.
"It would be too unflattering to our vanity to think he could have wished to
hurl us to our death, so it must be all right."
"He had forgotten what it was like," I said. But the idea did enter into my
mind that perhaps he had thought if our car should break down we might be
induced to continue our journey in his. And the suggestion of so strong a
desire on his part to monopolize a certain member of our party wasn't
wholly unpleasant. It gave me enough warmth round the heart to support
life during the rest of the experience which Beechy considered so "blissful."
I will say for Mr. Barrymore that he drove carefully, keeping the brakes
on all the time, and slowing down for one curve after another, so short and
so sharp, that if our automobile had been much longer in the body the turn
couldn't have been managed.
We had trusted to Mr. Barrymore's judgment about where we were to
stop at Bellagio, for even Sir Ralph had never done more than pass through

the place; and he had telegraphed for rooms at a hotel on a high promontory
above the lake, once the château of a famous old Italian family. It is still
called the villa Serbelloni, and Mr. Barrymore had described the view and
the garden as being so exquisite, that he had excited our curiosity and
interest. I always think, too, there is something fascinating, if you aren't
very grand yourself (or haven't been till lately), about living in the same
rooms where grand people have lived. You can say to yourself, "Here the
Duchess ate her Dinner, here she danced, here she wrote her letters. In this
garden she walked; her eyes looked upon this view," and so I was
particularly attracted towards the Villa Serbelloni, even though Prince
Dalmar-Kalm had suggested several reasons for our going to one of the
hotels on the level of the lake. Of course I'd not confided these reflections
either to Maida or Beechy, for even Maida is unsympathetic about some
things, and thinks, or says that she thinks, it is horridly snobbish to care
about titles. She told Beechy, in an argument they were having together, that
she would just as soon as not snub an English duke or marquise, just to
show that there were some American girls who didn't come abroad to spend
their money on buying a husband from the British aristocracy. She hasn't
had a chance to prove her strength of mind in this way yet, for so far we
have met only an English baronet; though I must admit that she's much
nicer to Mr. Barrymore, who is nobody at all, than she is either to Sir Ralph
Moray or the Prince.
When we seemed to be dangling midway between heaven and earth, and
the sapphires that had been the lakes had turned into burnished silver
mirrors, Mr. Barrymore drew our attention to a high point of land running
out into the water, its shape sharply cut like a silhouette in black against the
silver. "That is where we shall be in about half an hour more," said he, "for
all those twinkling yellow stars mean the Villa Serbelloni."
I thought it much more probable that we would be at the bottom of Lake
Como, having been previously dashed into pieces so small that no expert
could sort them. But just as the moon had painted a line of glittering gold
along the irregular edges of the purple mountains we did actually arrive on
level ground close to the border of the lake. Then we had to mount again to
the Villa Serbelloni, for there was no more direct way to it, connecting with
the road by which we had come, and after we had wound up the side of the

promontory for a little while we began to drink in a fragrance as divine as if
we really had been killed and had gone straight to heaven.
It was quite a different fragrance from any I had ever known before in
any garden; not so richly heavy as on the Riviera, though penetrating; as
delicate, Maida said, as a Beethoven symphony, and as individual. I believe
if I were to go blind, and somebody should lead me into the garden of the
Villa Serbelloni without telling me where I was, I should know by that
wonderful perfume. I can't imagine its being the same anywhere else.
At the sound of our motor several people came out to the door of the
long, white, crescent-shaped building, and among them, to my great
pleasure, was the Prince.
"How late you are!" he exclaimed, coming to help me out before Sir
Ralph, or a very handsome young man who was the manager of the hotel,
had time to do it. "I've been expecting you for the last two hours. Do you
know that it's nearly nine o'clock? I began to be afraid something had
happened."
"What a pity you didn't think of that in Milan!" snapped Beechy. "Did
you get Mamma to make a will in your favour last night?"
"My dear young lady, what do you mean?" implored the poor Prince.
"I guess you'd know that without asking, if you'd come the way we have,
instead of taking boats and things all over the place," giggled the impossible
child, and then complained out aloud that I was pinching her.
Naturally, the Prince was too dignified to bandy words with a naughty
little girl, so he didn't pursue the subject further, but began inquiring
particulars of our adventures as we went into the house together.
"Do you know why I was especially anxious to arrive ahead of you?" he
asked me, in a low voice.
"I think I remember your explaining last night," said I.
"Ah, but I didn't give my most important reasons. I kept them for your
ears alone; and I hope you won't be displeased. Do you remember telling
me something about to-morrow?"

I thought for a moment. "Do you mean that it will be my birthday?" I
asked.
"I mean nothing else. Did you imagine that I would forget?"
To tell the truth, I hoped he had, for I'd only mentioned it on an impulse,
to regret the words as soon as they were out. A woman who is—well, I'll
say over twenty-eight—had, perhaps, better let "sleeping dogs lie" when it
comes to talking about birthdays, especially if she has a daughter who
doesn't sleep, and never lies when she's wanted to. However, out the news
had popped about the 30th of April being my birthday, and the Prince would
hardly believe that I was as much as twenty-nine, though, of course, there is
Beechy, and I couldn't well have married younger than fifteen. I murmured
something now about a birthday being of no consequence (I wish it
weren't), but the Prince said that mine was of a great deal to him, and he
had made exertions to arrive early and arrange a little surprise for me.
"I will say no more," he went on. "You will know the rest to-morrow; but
the best, not until evening." I could think of nothing during dinner except
what he had said, though it was so late, and I'd been so hungry. And
afterwards, standing on the balcony outside my bedroom window looking
down on a scene of fairy-like beauty, the wonderful white moonlight and
thoughts of the Prince seemed to mingle together in my head, like some
intoxicating draught. "Countess Dalmar, Princess Dalmar-Kalm," I kept
saying over to myself, until the words wove themselves into a song in my
brain, with the scent of the flowers for accompaniment.
The whole house seems to have absorbed the perfumes of the garden, as
if they had soaked into the wood. The corridors, the bedrooms, the
wardrobes, even the chests of drawers, have the same delicate fragrance. It
scented my dreams and told me where we were when I waked in the
morning, confused with sleep.

XVI

A CHAPTER OF ENCHANTMENT

A birthday must be happy spent in such an exquisite place, I told myself,
when I'd got up and peeped out of the window upon a land of enchantment
—even a birthday more advanced than one would choose. By morning light
the lake was no longer sapphire, but had taken on a brilliant, opaque blue,
like lapis lazuli. Umbrella pines were stretched in dark, jagged lines on an
azure background. Black cypresses pointed warning fingers heavenward,
rising tall and slim and solemn, out of a pink cloud of almond blossoms.
The mountains towering round the lake, as if to protect its beauty with a
kind of loving selfishness, had their green or rugged brown sides softened
with a purplish glow like the bloom on a grape. And in the garden that
flowed in waves of radiant colour from terrace to terrace, as water flows
over a weir, roses and starry clematis, amethyst wistaria, rosy azalea, and a
thousand lovely things I'd never seen before, mingled tints as in a mosaic of
jewels.
I had lain awake in the night listening to a bird which I could almost have
believed a fairy, and, though I'd never heard a nightingale, I wondered if he
could be one. He said over and over again, through the white hours
perfumed with roses and flooded with moonlight: "Do look, do look! Spirit,
spirit, spirit!" And so, just in case he might have been calling me, I got up
early to see what he had wanted me to see. Then I was gladder than ever
that we had decided to spend at least that day and another night at
Serbelloni, for one might journey to all four corners of the globe and not
find another place so magically beautiful.
Although I was up so early, perhaps I spent a longer time over my toilet
than the two girls do over theirs; and when I was ready neither Maida nor
Beechy were in their rooms. I had opened my door to go down and look for
them when I came face to face with a waiter carrying an enormous bouquet.
It was for me, with a perfectly lovely poem written by the Prince. At least, it
was in his handwriting, so I suppose it was by him, and it was full of pretty
allusions to an "adorable woman," with praises for the gracious day that
gave her to the world. I was pleased! It was like going back and being a
young girl again, and I could have sung for joy, as the bird did last night.
The rest of the party were on an entrancing terrace, looking down over
other flowery terraces upon the town of Bellagio, with its charming old
campanile, and its grey roofs like a flock of doves clustering together on the

border of the lake. The water was so clear and still that the big hotels and
villas on the opposite shore seemed to have fallen in head down, and each
little red-and-white canopied boat waiting for passengers at the quay had its
double in the bright blue mirror. Clouds and mountains were all reflected
too, and it seemed as if one might take one's choice between the real world
and the dream world.
Maida and Beechy had already been for a walk with Sir Ralph and Mr.
Barrymore, who had taken them up by a labyrinth of wooded paths to an
old ruined castle which they described as crowning the head of the
promontory. It had been built by the Romans, and in the Middle Ages was
the stronghold of brigands, who captured beautiful ladies and terrorized the
whole country. The girls were excited about some secret passages which
they had found, leading down from the ruin to wonderful nooks screened on
one side by trees and hanging over sheer abysses on the other. They wanted
to show also an old chapel and a monks' burying ground which you had to
reach by scrambling down a narrow stairway attached to the precipitous
rocks, like a spider web. But I had on my white suede shoes with the Louis
Quinze heels, which look so well with a white dress and dark blue silk
stockings; besides, I began to want my breakfast, and it would have been
impolite to disappear before I thanked the Prince, who might come out at
any moment.
We had our coffee and rolls in a kind of bower close to the terrace; and
afterwards I did walk along the level path, fenced in with a tangle of roses
—pink, and white, and gold, and crimson—as far as a high shelf, cut into
the face of the sheer cliff which plunges vertically down, down into the
blue-green water. The Prince was my companion, and he (who has
distinguished friends in the neighbourhood, which he has visited before)
told me a strange story of the place. Once, he said, the Princes of Stanga
were lords of the land here, and a certain daughter of the house was famous
as the handsomest and cruellest Princess of her time. Despite her dreadful
disposition, she had crowds of lovers, whom she used to invite to walk with
her by moonlight, after a tête-à-tête supper. She would lead them to this
very spot on which we stood, and just as she had lured them on to make a
burning declaration of love she would give a laugh, and a sudden push,
which hurled them to death in the lake far below. How different, judging
from what I have read in the ladies' magazines, from the home-life of our

dear Princesses of to-day! And how different from my habits, if I am asked
to become, and do become, a Princess. I should have liked to throw out
some delicate little suggestion of this sort, and perhaps would have found
the right words, had not Beechy appeared at that moment with Sir Ralph.
Then my whole attention was taken up, as it had been during breakfast, by
tactfully staving off any allusion on the Prince's part to my birthday. All was
in vain, however; he said something gallant, and I was quite as giddy for a
few seconds as one of the wicked Princess's lovers, lest Beechy should be in
an impish mood and throw out allusions to my age. But she was as good as
a kitten, though she looked at me in a naughty way, and only said, "Would
any one believe Mamma was twenty-nine to-day—if it weren't for Me?"
When we went indoors afterwards I gave her that ruby heart ring of mine
that she likes.
All day long we were busy doing agreeable things. We lunched down by
the lake shore, in the garden of a big hotel there, and afterwards were rowed
across to Cadenabbia, in one of the canopied boats, to visit the Villa
Carlotta in its wonderful terraced garden. I was delighted with the boat and
the man who rowed us, in his white clothes and scarlet sash, but the Prince
half-whispered in my ear that he was going to show me something better in
the evening, when the time came for the "birthday surprise" about which I
must please say nothing—not even to Beechy.
We had coffee at the most idyllic spot imaginable, which we reached by
leaving the boat and mounting rather a steep path that went up beside a
baby cascade. At the top was a shady terrace, with arbours of grape vines
and roses, and a peasant's house, where the people live who waited upon us.
We had thick cream for our coffee, and delicious stuff with raisins in it and
sugar on top, which was neither bread nor cake. I wanted the recipe for it,
but I didn't like to get any one to ask; and perhaps it wouldn't taste the same
in Denver. Oh dear me, I begin to think there are lots of things that won't
taste the same in Denver! But I should love better than anything to go back
with a high title, and see what some of those society women, who turned up
their noses at me when I was only Mrs. Simon Kidder, would do then.
There isn't one who has a right to put crowns on her baggage or anywhere
else, and I've got that already, whatever happens by and by.

We were rowed back to Bellagio again, and climbed up by a short cut to
the Villa Serbelloni just in time to escape a storm on the lake. In a flower-
draped cave above our favourite terrace, we sat in garden chairs and
watched the effect, while Mr. Barrymore and Sir Ralph talked about Pliny,
whose statue was nearby, and some strange old general of Napoleon's who
lived for awhile at the Villa Serbolloni, and terrorized people who wanted
him to pay his debts, by keeping fierce, hungry bloodhounds to patrol the
place night and day.
When you are nicely sheltered, to watch rain falling in the distance, and
marching like troops of grey ghosts along the sky, is something like
watching other people's troubles comfortably, while you are happy yourself
—though Maida would think that a selfish speech. Anyway, the effect of
that storm was thrilling. First, Nature seemed to stop smiling and grow very
grave as the shadows deepened among the mountains. Then, suddenly the
thing happened which she had been expecting. A spurt of ink was flung
across the sky and lake, leaving on the left a wall of blue, on the right an
open door of gold. Black feathers drooped from the sky and trailed across
the roughened water, to be blown away from sight as the storm passed from
our lake to another; and when they had vanished, out came the sun again to
shine through violet mists which bathed the mountain sides, and made their
peaks seem to rise from a transparent sea.
We could not tear ourselves away until sunset; and by the time we had
dressed for dinner, the rising moon had traced a path of silver from shore to
shore, across the pansy-purple water, where the lights of Cadennabia were
sending golden ladders down to the bottom of the lake.
I supposed that we would dine indoors, but the arbour where we had
breakfasted was illuminated with coloured lanterns, which gleamed like
rubies and emeralds and topazes among the dark tree branches, and the
trails of roses and wistaria. "This is part of my surprise," said the Prince. "I
have arranged this in honour of your birthday, dear Countess. No, don't
thank me. Is it not my greatest pleasure to think of you?"
Perhaps it was because I was in a mood to be pleased with everything,
but it did seem as if I had never tasted such a dinner as that was. We had
every delicacy in and out of season, a fruit salad which is a specialty of the

house, made of strawberries, fresh figs, cherries, pineapples, and almonds;
and when I thought that all the surprise was over, along the terrace came a
procession of green, blue and rose-coloured lights, as if fairies were flitting
among the trees. But the fairies turned out to be waiters, bringing
illuminated ices in fantastic shapes, and a birthday cake for me lighted with
twenty-nine tiny wax candles.
All had been thought of by the Prince; and if there had been any doubt in
my mind before, I now saw that he really loved me for myself alone. When
everybody had wished me good wishes, blowing out the candles as they
wished, we left the table to stroll about in the moonlight, and the Prince and
I got separated from the others. "Ah, but this isn't all," he broke in, when I
was trying to tell him how much I appreciated what he had done. "The best,
I hope, is to come, if you will trust yourself to me for a little while."
I was ready to do so for any length of time, and when he had sent to the
house for my wrap, and was leading me down a sloping path which I hadn't
seen before, my curiosity bubbled like a tea-kettle beginning to boil.
"We are going to the little harbour on the Lecco side," he explained, "and
there—you shall see what you shall see."
"Are you planning to run away with me?" I asked, laughing.
"Perhaps," said he, "and as fast as if we were in my automobile, though
we shall travel by water."
I couldn't think what he meant, until we arrived at the harbour of which
he had spoken. There, among two or three canopied row-boats was one as
different as a swan is from geese. It had no canopy; and as the Prince
brought me down to the quay, a man who had been sitting in the boat
jumped up and touched his cap, which was shaped like a chauffeur's. And
sure enough it was a chauffeur's, for this was a motor-boat, which had been
lent by friends to Prince Dalmar-Kalm, especially for him to take me on the
lake by moonlight.
He told me that he had hurried to Bellagio on purpose to borrow it, and if
we did not leave too early to-morrow the people would call on me—
distinguished people, who would delight in doing honour to the "American
Countess."

Those were his very words; and he was so kind that I hadn't the heart to
let him see I was frightened to go out in the motor-boat. I should have been
far happier in a slow, comfortable old row-boat; and when I found that the
Prince intended to leave the chauffeur behind, and manage the thing
himself, my heart felt as if it had melted and begun to trickle down between
my ribs. It did seem hard, just as I had got used to a motor-car, to have this
new experience thrust upon me, all unprepared. Often I had thought what
noble sentiments one ought to utter while driving in an automobile,
considering that, at any moment your next words might be your last! but as
we shot away from that little quay, out into the cold white path of the moon,
I felt that to save my life I couldn't have uttered any sentiments at all.
The Prince, however, appeared to be happy, and to have perfect
confidence in himself, in spite of the water looking twice as wet as it had
looked in the afternoon. This motor was of the same make as that in his car,
he said; it was by his advice that his friends had bought it, therefore he
understood it very well, and where would I like to go?
"Anywhere," I answered, as pleasantly as a woman can, whose heart has
just turned to water.
"If I could but flatter myself that you meant anywhere with me!" he
exclaimed. "To me, also, our destination is indifferent, provided that I am
with you and have you to myself, undisturbed by others not worthy to
approach you. Do you know, Countess, this is the first time you have ever
been alone with me, for more than a few moments?"
"It's only been a few minutes now," I faltered, for the sake of something
to say.
"Ah, but it will be many minutes before I give you up," said he, "unless
you are cruel."
My heart began to beat fast, for his manner made me guess that
something special was coming, and though I had often thought such a
moment might arrive, and decided, or almost decided, how I would act,
when it was actually at hand it seemed more tremendous than I had
supposed.

"You must try to keep me in good humour, then," said I; but though the
moon was beautifully romantic, and I felt he was looking at me with his
whole soul in his eyes, I couldn't help keeping one of mine glued on the
steering gear, or whatever one ought to call it, and wondering whether he
was paying as much attention to it as he was to me.
"I am more anxious to please you than anything else in the world; you
must have seen that long ago," he went on, moving closer. I gave a little
bound, because the boat was certainly going in zigzags, and he was so near
that by accident I jogged his elbow. With that, the boat darted off to the left,
at twice the rate it had been going. I screamed under my breath, as Beechy
says, and caught hold of the seat with both hands. The Prince did something
in a hurry to the machinery, and suddenly the engine was as still as death.
The boat went on for a few yards, as if by its own impetus, and then began
to float helplessly.
"I've stopped the motor by mistake," he explained. "I will start it again
soon, but let us remain as we are for the present. It is so delicious to rock
quietly on the little waves with you beside me, and the rest of the world far
away."
"Oh, but the waves aren't so very little," I said. "The water hasn't
smoothed down since the storm. It's awfully nice and poetic, but don't you
think it would be still nicer if you just steered?"
"I cannot steer the boat unless the motor is working," he replied. "But
there is no danger of our being run down at this time. The moon lights the
water with a great white lamp."
"Yes, but look at that big, dark cloud," said I, pointing up. "It will be
putting out the light of the lamp in about five minutes. And—and I do see
things moving on the water. When the moon is obscured, we might have a
collision."
The Prince looked up and saw the cloud too. "Very well," he said. "I will
start the motor at once on one condition—that you do not ask me to take
you home for an hour, at least."
"I promise that," I answered, quite shyly.

Instantly he set to work at the motor; but it wouldn't start. The Prince did
a great many things, and even lighted dozens of matches, to see what was
the matter, but not a throb would the engine give.
"I am afraid," he announced at last, in a voice that tried not to sound
cross, "I'm afraid the sparking-plug is broken."
"Well?" said I, "What then? Shall we be drowned?"
"Not at all," he reassured me, taking my hand. "We shall only drift about
until some one comes to our rescue, as unfortunately there are no oars on
board. If I thought you were not unhappy, I could rejoice in the accident."
I let him keep my hand, but I couldn't feel as happy as I ought, to be
polite. "It's—it's very interesting," I stammered, "but they don't know where
we are, and they'll never think to search the lake for us!"
"The chauffeur will come to see what is wrong if I do not get the boat
back by a little after midnight," said the Prince

.
"A little after midnight!" I echoed. "But that would be awful! What
would they think? And oh, see, the cloud's over the moon! Ugh, how dark it
is. We shall certainly be run down. Couldn't we call for help?"
"We are a long way already from the shore," said the Prince; "and besides
it is not dignified to shout. By and by some one will come. Meanwhile, let
us enjoy ourselves. Dear Countess, I confess I brought you here to-night—
your birthday night—for a purpose. Will you listen while I tell you what it
is?"
"Sh! Wait one minute. Aren't those voices in the distance, and don't you
see something big and dark bearing down upon us?"
"They exist but in your imagination," answered the Prince; "Or is it only
that you wish to put me off?"
"Oh, no; I wouldn't be so rude," said I. "Please excuse me." But I was on
pins and needles, trying to keep an eye in every direction at once (as if I'd
had a headlight in my face) and to make the most of my situation at the
same time.
"Then I will no longer strain my patience," cried the Prince in a warm
voice. "Dearest Countess, I am at your feet."
And so he was, for he went right down on his knees in the bottom of the
boat, kneeling on my dress so that I couldn't have stirred an inch if I'd
wanted to, which I didn't; for I meant to accept him. He had had only my
right hand, but now he seized the left, too, and began to kiss, first one, and
then the other, as if I'd been a queen.
This was the first time a man had ever gone down on his knees to me, for
the Prince is the only foreign gentleman I ever knew, and Mr. Kidder
proposed in a buggy. Afraid as I was of a collision, I was enjoying myself
very much, when suddenly a horrid thing happened. A great white light
pounced upon us like a hawk on a chicken, and focussed on us as if we
were a tableau. It was so bright, shining all over us and into our eyes, that it
made everything else except just the Prince and me, and our boat, look
black, as if it were raining ink. And we were so taken aback with surprise,

that for an instant or two we kept our position exactly as if we were sitting
for our photographs, the Prince kneeling at my feet and kissing my hands, I
bending down my face over his head.
I never experienced such a moment in my life, and the thought flashed
into my head that it was Simon's ghost come to forbid my second marriage.
This idea was so frightful, that it was actually a relief to hear a vulgar shout
of laughter coming from the other end of the light, wherever that was.
The Prince recovered before I did, and jerked himself up to a sitting
posture on the seat, exclaiming something in German, which I am afraid
was swearing.
"Those Italian ruffians of the douane, with their disgusting search-light!"
he sputtered in English when he was recovering himself a little. "But do not
derange yourself, Countess. They have seen that we are not smugglers,
which is one advantage, because they will not trouble us any more."

A great white light pounced upon us like a
hawk on a chicken
All this time the light was in our faces, and the hateful customs people
could see every feature, down to the shortest eyelash. When they did turn
the horrid white stream in another direction, I felt as weak as if the search-
light had been a stream of cold water.
I tried not to be hysterical, but I couldn't help crying and laughing
alternately, especially when the Prince would have taken my hands and

begun all over again.
"'Ware the light!" I gasped, as nervous as a cat that hears a mouse in the
wall. And though I really did want the Prince to propose to me, and was
anxious to say that I would be his princess, in the circumstances I was as
thankful as I was astonished to hear Beechy's voice calling to me across the
water.
In five minutes more a row-boat containing all the members of our party
came alongside, and the lights in our bow and theirs showed us their faces,
though the moon was still hiding her face in her hands with a pair of black
gloves on.
"We thought you'd gone down to the lake," said Beechy, "so I persuaded
the others to come too; but we never dreamed you were in a motor-boat, or
whereabouts you were, till we saw you."
I felt myself get as red as fire; though, when one comes to think of it, I
am my own mistress, and Beechy can't keep me from doing anything that
I've made up my mind to do.
"This boat belongs to a friend of the Prince's," I explained. "We were
trying it when it broke down, and he has been examining the motor."
"So I noticed," remarked Beechy. "I guess you're a little near-sighted,
aren't you, Prince?"
He did not answer her, but explained to Mr. Barrymore the cause of the
accident, and asked to be towed into harbour.
Of course, my evening was spoiled. I tried to laugh it off and say how
Providential it was they had come to our rescue; but though I kept telling
myself every minute that there was no need for me to mind Beechy, I
dreaded meeting her alone. However, the evil moment wouldn't be put off
forever, and she came along the balcony from her window to mine when I
had shut myself up in my bedroom.
I expected her to fly out at me, but her manner was the same as usual.
"Want me to undo your frock behind, Mamma?" she asked.

Then, when she had got me half unhooked: "Tell me what the Prince said
when he proposed."
"He didn't propose," said I.
"If he didn't I shall ask Sir Ralph to call him out. He'd no business kissing
your hands unless he'd proposed."
I was surprised at this attitude. But it made me feel confidential. "He
hadn't had a chance," I volunteered. "He was just going to, when the search-
light—"
"—Searched. Lucky for you the interruption came at the right moment."
"Why? I thought—"
"Because it saved you the pain of refusing him."
"But, Beechy darling, I don't think I was going to refuse him."
"Don't you? Well, I do. I'm sure of it."
"Dearest, if you wouldn't look at me in that square-chinned way! It's so
like your poor Papa."
"I'm Papa's daughter. But I don't intend to be Prince Dalmar-Kalm's step-
daughter."
I began to cry a little. "Why do you always try to thwart me when I want
to be happy?" I asked.
"That isn't fair to say. Look at my short dress and my hair in pigtails.
There's proof enough of what I'm ready to do to make you happy. I let you
be a Countess, and you may be a Princess if you can buy the title, but no
Princes on this ranch!"
My blood was up, and I determined to fight. "Beechy," I exclaimed. "I
guess I've a right to do as I like, and I will. It's for your good as well as
mine, for me to marry a title, and I'm going to. I shall say 'yes' when the
Prince proposes."

"He won't propose," said she, suddenly as cool as if she had been in a
refrigerator.
"He will, the minute I give him the opportunity, and I shall to-morrow; I
don't care what you do."
"I bet he won't. I'll bet you a good deal. Anything you like, except the
long dress I've got in my trunk, and the package of hairpins in my grip."
"What makes you think he won't?" I asked, worried by her manner,
which was odd.
"I know he won't."
"You know the Prince will never propose to me?"
She nodded.
I flew at her, and took her by the shoulders, as if she'd been seven instead
of—her present age.
"You cruel girl!" I exclaimed. "You're going to tell him how old I am, and
—and a lot of hateful things."
"No, I'm not, and for a good reason. It wouldn't change his mind. So long
as your banking account's all right, he wouldn't care if you were
Methusaleh. I shan't tell him anything about you. I shan't mention your
name. But he won't propose."
"What are you going to do?" I stammered.
"That's my secret."
"Oh, you have got something in your head?"
She nodded again. "And up my sleeve."
"You will poison his mind."
"No, I won't. I shall only—play dolls."
And she went on unfastening my waist.

PART IV

TOLD BY MAIDA DESTREY

XVII

A CHAPTER OF MOTOR MANIA

What becomes of the beautiful army of days marching away from us into
the past? The wonderful days, each one differing from all the others: some
shining in our memory, in glory of purple and gold, that we saw only as
they passed, with the setting of the sun; some smiling back at us, in their
pale spring dress of green and rose; some weeping in grey; but all moving
at the same pace along the same road? The strange days that have given us
everything they had to give, and yet have taken from us little pieces of our
souls. Where do the days go? There must be some splendid world where,
when they have passed down to the end of the long road, they all live
together like queens, waited upon by those black slaves, the nights that have
followed them like their shadows, holding up their robes.
I've had this thought in my mind often since I have been flashing across
Europe in an automobile, grudging each day that slipped from me and
would not stay a moment longer because I loved it. I wish I knew the way
to the land where the days that have passed live; for when those that are to
come seem cold to me, I would like to go and pay the old ones a visit. How
well I would know their faces, and how glad I would be to see them again
in their own world!
Well, perhaps, even though I can never find the way there, I can see the
days' portraits painted in rows in the picture gallery of a house I own. It isn't
a very big house yet, but at least one new room is being built onto it every
year, and lately it has grown faster than ever before, though the architecture
has improved. Fancy my being a householder! But I am, and so is
everybody. We all have the House of our Past, of which we alone have a

key, and whenever we wish, we can steal softly, secretly in, by dim
passages, to enter rooms sealed to the whole world except ourselves.
I have been making the picture gallery in mine, since I left America; but
the pictures I care for most have been put up since I began motoring.
I suppose some very rich natures can be rich without travel, for they are
born with caskets already full of jewels; but ordinary folk have empty
caskets if they keep them shut up always in one safe, and I begin to see that
mine were but poor things. I keep them wide open now, and every day,
every hour, a beautiful new pearl or diamond drops in.
It seems strange to remember how reluctant I was to come away. I
thought there could be nothing more beautiful, more satisfying to eyes and
heart, than my home. The white, colonial house set back from the broad
Hudson River among locust trees and tall, rustling maples; the sloping
lawn, with the beds of geranium and verbena; the garden with its dear, old-
fashioned flowers—holly-hocks, sweet-williams, bleeding-hearts, grass
pinks, and yellow roses; the grey-green hills across the water; that picture
stood to me for all that was ideal on earth. And then, the Sisters, with their
soft ways and soft voices, their white robes and pale blue, floating veils;
how their gracious figures blended with and accentuated the peaceful charm
of the scene, shut away from the storms of this world throughout their lives!
I was partly right, for of its kind there could be nothing more beautiful
than that picture, but my mistake was in the narrow-minded wish to let one
suffice. I rejoice now in every new one I have hung up, and shall rejoice all
the more when I am back again myself—just one of those white figures that
flit across the old canvas.
Yes, I shall be one of those figures, of course. The Mother has always
told me it was my true vocation; that peace and leisure for reflection and
concentration of mind were the greatest earthly blessings a woman could
have. Ever since, as a very small girl, I longed for the day when I should be
allowed to wear one of those pretty, trailing, white cashmere dresses and
long, pale blue veils, I have looked forward to joining the Sisterhood of
good women who alone have ever given me love and the protection of
home.

Nothing has happened to change my intentions, and they are not changed.
Only, I'm not homesick any more, as I used to be in the feverish Paris days,
or even on the Riviera, when we did very little but rush back and forth
between Monte Carlo and Cap Martin, with Prince Dalmar-Kalm and his
friends.
I shall go home and carry out the plans I've had for all these years, but—I
shall live—live—live—every single minute till the time comes for my
good-bye to the world
.
I should have liked to stay a month at Bellagio (with the wonderful
garden of Serbelloni to explore from end to end), instead of the two days
that we did stop; still, the moment our start was arranged, I was perfectly
happy at the thought of being in the car again.
There was a discussion as to how we should begin the journey to Lecco
and Desenzano, where we were to sleep one night, for our difficulty lay in
the fact that there's but one road on which you can drive away from the
wooded, wedge-like promontory which Bellagio pushes out into the lake;
the steep, narrow road up to Civenna and down again to Canzo and Asso,
by which we had come. As our car had done the climb and descent so well,
Mr. Barrymore wanted to do it again, perhaps with a wicked desire to force
the Prince into accompanying us or seeming timid about the capabilities of
his automobile. But when Aunt Kathryn discovered how easy the alternative
was (simply to put the car on a steamer as far as Varenna, then running
along a good road from there southward to Lecco), she said that Mr.
Barrymore's way would be tempting Providence, with whose designs, I
must say she appears to have an intimate acquaintance. Heaven had spared
us the first time, she argued, but now if we deliberately flew in its face, it
would certainly not be considerate on a second occasion.
I was ready so much earlier on the last morning than Aunt Kathryn or
Beechy, that I ordered coffee and rolls for myself alone on the terrace; and
they had just appeared when Mr. Barrymore came out. He was going
presently to see to the car, so naturally we had breakfast together, with an
addition of some exquisite wild strawberries, gleaming like cabouchon
rubies under a froth of whipped cream. It was only eight o'clock, when we

finished, and he said there would be time for one last stroll through the
divinest garden in Italy, if I cared for it. Of course I did care, so we walked
together up the rose-bordered path from the sweet-smelling flower-zone to
the pine-belt that culminates in the pirates' castle. While we stood looking
down over the three arms of the lake in their glittering blue sleeves, a voice
spoke behind us: "Ah, Miss Destrey, I've found you at last. Your cousin
asked me to look for you and bring you back as soon as possible. You are
urgently wanted for something, though what was not confided to me."
The Prince used to be troublesome when he first attached himself to our
party. If ever he happened to meet me in the big hall or the garden of the
hotel at Cap Martin, when neither Aunt Kathryn nor Beechy was with me,
he always made some pretext to talk and pay me stupid compliments,
though he would flee if my relations came in sight. After the trip began,
however, his manner was suddenly different, and he showed no more desire
for my society than I for his; therefore I was surprised by an equally sudden
change this morning. It was hardly to be defined in words, but it was very
noticeable. Even his way of looking at me was not the same. At Cap Martin
it used to be rather bold, as if I were the kind of person who ought to be
flattered by any attention from a Prince Dalmar-Kalm. Later, if he glanced
at me at all, it was with an odd expression, as if he wished me to regret
something, I really couldn't imagine what. But now there was a sort of
reverence in his gaze and manner, as if I were a queen and he were one of
my courtiers. As I'm not a queen, and wouldn't care to have him for a
courtier if I were, I wasn't pleased when he attempted to keep at my side
going down by the narrow path up which Mr. Barrymore and I had walked
together. He didn't precisely thrust Mr. Barrymore out of the way, but
seemed to take it for granted, as it were by right of his rank, that it was for
him, not the others to walk beside me.
I resented this, for to my mind it is horribly caddish for a person to snub
another not his equal in fortune; and as Mr. Barrymore never pushes himself
forward when people behave as if he were their inferior, I determined to
show unmistakably which man I valued more. Consequently, when the
Prince persisted in keeping at my shoulder, I turned and talked over it to Mr.
Barrymore following behind. But on the terrace level with the hotel he had
to leave us, for the automobile was to be shipped on board a cargo-boat that
sailed for Varenna some time before ours.

"Why are you always unkind to me? Have I been so unfortunate as to vex
you in any way?" asked the Prince, when we were alone.
"I am neither kind nor unkind," I replied in a practical, dry sort of tone. "I
am going in now to see why they want me."
"Please don't be in such a hurry," said the Prince. "Perhaps I made Miss
Beechy's message too urgent, for I had seen you with the chauffeur, and I
could not bear that you should be alone with him."
"It is stupid to speak of Mr. Barrymore as the chauffeur," I exclaimed in a
rage. "And it's not your affair Prince, to concern yourself with my actions."
With that I darted into the long corridor that opens from the terrace, and
left him furiously tugging at his moustache.
"Did you send the Prince to call me in, Beechy?" I asked, after I had
tapped at her door.
"I happened to see the Prince and have a little talk with him in the garden
a few minutes ago," said she, "and I told him if he saw you he might say
we'd be glad if you'd come. Mamma's in such a stew finishing her packing,
and it would be nice if you'd help shut the dressing-bag."
Aunt Kathryn hadn't been herself, it seemed to me, during our two days
at Bellagio. This morning she had a headache, and though I'd hoped that she
would walk down to the boat with the Prince, she decided to take the hotel
omnibus, so I was pestered with him once more. Beechy and Sir Ralph were
having an argument of some sort (in which I heard that funny nickname
"the Chauffeulier" occur several times), and as Mr. Barrymore had gone
ahead with the car and our luggage, the Prince kept with me all the way
through the terraced garden, then down the quaint street of steps past the
bright-coloured silk-shops, to the crowded little quay. I should have thought
that after my last words he would have avoided me, but apparently he hadn't
understood that he was being snubbed. He even put himself out to be nice to
the black dog from Airole, which is my shadow now, and detests the Prince
as openly as he secretly detests it.
It was scarcely half an hour's sail to Varenna, and ten minutes after
landing there, we were in the car, bowling smoothly along a charming road

close by the side of Lecco, the eastern arm of the triple lake of Como.
For a time we ran opposite the promontory of Bellagio, with the white
crescent of the Villa Serbelloni conspicuous on the darkly wooded hillside.
Near us was an electric railway which burrowed into tunnels, as did our
own road now and then, to save itself from extinction in a wall of rock. As
we went on, we found the scenery of Lecco more wild and rugged than that
of Como with its many villas, each one of which might have been Claude
Melnotte's. Villages were sparsely scattered on the sides of high, sheer
mountains which reared their bared shoulders up to a sky of pure
ultramarine, but Lecco itself was big and not picturesque, taking an air of
up-to-date importance from the railway station which connects this magic
land with the rest of Italy.
"I shouldn't care to stop in this town," said Beechy, when Mr. Barrymore
slowed down before an imposing glass-fronted hotel with gorgeous
ornamentations of iron and a wonderful gateway. "After what we've come
from, Lecco does look unromantic and prosaic, though I daresay this hotel
is nice and will give us a good lunch."
"Nevertheless it's the Promessi Sposi country," answered Mr. Barrymore.
"What's that?" asked Beechy and Aunt Kathryn together. But I knew; for
in the garret at home there's an old, old copy of "The Betrothed," which is
Manzoni's I Promessi Sposi in English, and I found and read it when I was a
small girl. It was very long, and perhaps I should find it a little dull now
though I hope not, for I loved it then, reading in delicious secrecy and
stealth, because the Sisterhood doesn't allow youthful pupils to batten on
love stories, no matter how old-fashioned. I hadn't thought of the book for
years; but evidently its story had been lying all this time carefully put away
in a parcel, gathering dust on some forgotten shelf in my brain, for down it
tumbled at the mention of the name. As Mr. Barrymore explained to Aunt
Kathryn that this was the country of I Promessi Sposi because the scenes of
Manzoni's romance had been laid in the neighbourhood, I could see as
plainly as if they lay before my eyes the quaint woodcuts representing the
beautiful heroine, Lucia, her lover, Renzo, and the wicked Prince
Innominato.

Nevertheless I took some credit to myself for remembering the old book
so well, and fancied that there weren't many other travellers nowadays who
would have it. But pride usually goes before a fall, as hard-hearted nurses
tell vain little girls who have come to grief in their prettiest dresses; and at
lunch it appeared that the humblest, most youthful waiter at Lecco knew
more about the classic romance of the country than I did. Indeed, not a
character in the book that wasn't well represented in a picture on the wall or
a painted post-card, and all seemed at least as real to the people of Lecco as
any of their modern fellow-citizens.
The landlord was so shocked at the idea of our going on without driving
a few kilometres to Acquate, the village where Renzo and Lucia had lived,
and visiting the wayside shrine where Don Roderigo accosted Lucia, that
Aunt Kathryn was fired with a desire to go, though the Prince (who had
come the same way we had) would have dissuaded her by saying there was
nothing worth seeing. "I believe you don't approve of stories about wicked
Princes like Innominato," said Beechy, "and that's why you don't want us to
go. You're afraid we'll get suspicious if we know too much about them."
After that speech the Prince didn't object any more, and even went with us
in his car, when we had rounded off our lunch with the Robiolo cheese of
the country.
It was a short drive to Lucia's village; we could have walked in less than
an hour, but that wouldn't have pleased Aunt Kathryn. Appropriately, we
passed a statue of Manzoni on the way—a delightful Manzoni seated
comfortably on a monument (with sculptured medallions from scenes in his
books) almost within sight of the road to Acquate, and quite within sight of
Monte Resegno, where the castle of wicked Innominato still stands. Then
no sooner had we turned into the narrow road leading up to the little
mountain hamlet than our intentions became the property of every passer-
by, every peasant, every worker from the wire factories.
"I Promessi Sposi," they would say to each other in a matter-of-course
way, with an accompanying nod that settled our destination without a
loophole of doubt.
In Acquate itself, a tiny but picturesque old village (draped with wistaria
from end to end, as if it were en fête), everything was reminiscent and

commemorative of the romance that had made its fame. Here was Via
Cristoforo; there Via Renzo; while naturally Via Lucia led us up to the
ancient grey osteria where the virtuous heroine was born and lived. We
went in, of course, and Sir Ralph ordered red wine of the country, to give us
an excuse to sit and stare at the coloured lithographs and statuettes of the
lovers, and to peep into the really beautiful old kitchen with the ruddy
gleams of copper in its dusky shadows, its bright bits of painted china, its
pretty window and huge fireplace.
On a shelf close by the fire sat a cat, and I attempted to stroke it, for it
looked old enough and important enough to have belonged to Lucia herself.
But I might have known that it would not suffer my caresses, for it's nearly
always so with foreign cats and dogs, I find. The lack of confidence in their
own attractions which they show is as pathetic as that of a neglected wife;
they never seem to think of themselves as pets.
Aunt Kathryn would persist in talking of Innominato as "Abominato"
(which was after all more appropriate), and the generous display of Lucia's
charms in the pictures caused her basely to doubt that most virtuous
maiden's genuine merit. "If the girl hadn't worn such dresses, they wouldn't
have painted her in them," she argued. "If she did wear them, she was a
minx who got no more than she might have expected, prancing about lonely
mountain roads in such shameless things. And I don't want a piece of wood
from the shutter of her bedroom to take away with me. I should be mortified
to tell any ladies in Denver what it was; and what's the good of carting
souvenirs of your travels around with you, if you can't tell people about
them?"
We got back to our lakeside hotel sooner than we had thought, and the
landlord prayed us to see one more of Lecco's great sights. "It is not as if I
asked you to go out of your way to look at some fine old ruin or a beautiful
view," he pleaded. "You have seen many such on your journey, and you will
see many more; but this thing to which I would send you is unique. There is
nothing like it anywhere else in the world; and to go will take you five
minutes."
This excited Aunt Kathryn's curiosity, but when she heard that "it" was
only a wonderful model of the cathedral at Milan, exact in every smallest

detail and made by one man, she thought that she would seize the
opportunity of lying down while the others went, and be fresh for our start,
in an hour's time.
The idea of a model in wood of such a masterpiece as the Milan
Cathedral didn't particularly recommend itself to me; but when we had
arrived at a curiosity shop, and been ushered into a huge inner room, I
suddenly changed my mind, for what I saw there was wonderful—as
wonderful in its way as the great Cathedral itself.
It was the father of the man who showed us the model, and owned the
shop, who had made the miniature duomo. His name was Giacomo
Mattarelli, and he was an extraordinary genius, worthy of a tomb in the
Cathedral to the worship of whose beauty he devoted twenty years of his
life and sacrificed those which remained.
The story of his self-appointed task struck me as being as marvellous as
the task's result, which stood there in the dim room, perfect in proportion
and delicately wrought as ivory carved by Chinese experts. I don't know
what the others thought, but the tale as told by the artist's son was for me
full of pathos and beautiful sentiment.
The man had been a cabinet-maker by trade, but he had money and could
gratify his craving for art. The glory of the Milan Cathedral, seen once,
became an obsession for him, and he went again and again. At last the idea
grew in his mind to express his homage in a perfect copy of the great
church which, as he said, "held his heart." There was no train between
Milan and Lecco in his day (1840), and he used to walk all those miles to
make drawings of the Cathedral. At first he meant to do the work in iron,
but iron was too heavy; then he began casting plates in copper, but they
were hollow behind, and he could not get the effect he wanted, so after
several wasted months he began again with olive wood. Often he would
work all night; and no trouble was too much for his inexhaustible patience.
Each statue, each gargoyle was copied, first in a drawing, then with the
carving tools, and no hand but that of the artist ever touched the work. At
the end of twenty-two years it was completed; not a detail missing inside or
out; and then when all was done the modeller went blind.

Now his son had lighted up the model for us to see, and I was almost
aghast at the thought of the incredible labour it had meant—literally a
labour of love, for the artist had given his eyes and his best years to his
adoration of the beautiful. And the whole thing seemed the more of a
marvel when I remembered how Mr. Barrymore had called Milan Cathedral
the most highly ornamented building in the world. Nowhere else, he said,
existed a church so smothered with carving. Every point, every niche has its
statue. There, in the model, one could find each one. Through magnifying
glasses the little carved faces (hardly larger, some of them, than a pin's
head) looked at one with the same expression as the original, and not a
mistake had been made in a fold of drapery. Each sculptured capital, each
column, each decorative altar of the interior had been carved with loving
fidelity. All that, in the vast Cathedral had taken centuries and many
generations of men to plan and finish, this one infinitely patient man had
copied in miniature in twenty-two years. It would have been worth visiting
the town to see the model alone, even if we had turned miles out of our
path.
To go from there to Desenzano by way of Bergamo and Brescia was to
go from lake to lake—Lecco to Garda; and the road was beautiful. Castles
and ancient monasteries had throned themselves on hills to look down on
little villages cringing at their august feet. Along the horizon stretched a
serrated line of pure white mountains, sharply chiselled in marble, while a
thick carpet of wild flowers, blue and gold, had been cut apart to let our
road pass through. It was a biscuit-coloured road, smooth as uncut velvet,
and fringed on either side with a white spray of heavenly-fragrant acacia,
like our locust-trees at home. Rustic fences and low hedges defining rich
green meadows, were inter-laced with wild roses, pink and white, and
plaited with pale gold honeysuckle, a magnet for armies of flitting
butterflies. Every big farmhouse, every tiny cottage was curtained with
wistaria and heavy-headed roses. Wagons passed us laden with new-mown
hay and crimson sorrel; and we had one odd adventure, which might have
been dangerous, but was only poetic.
A horse drawing some kind of vehicle, piled high with fragrant clover,
took it into his head just as were side by side, that it was his duty to punish
his mechanical rival for existing. Calculating his distance nicely, he gave a
bound, flung the cart against our car, and upset half his load of clover on

our heads. What he did afterwards we had no means of knowing, for we
were temporarily extinguished.
It was the strangest sensation I ever had, being suddenly overwhelmed by
a soft, yet heavy wave of something that was like a ton of perfumed
feathers.
Instantly the car stopped, for Mr. Barrymore, buried as he was, didn't
forget to put on the brakes. Then I felt that he was excavating me, and
almost before I knew what had swallowed me up I was emerging from
green and pink billows of clover, laughing, gasping, half-dazed, but wholly
delighted. "You're not drowned?" he asked quickly.
"No, I can swim," I answered, and set myself promptly to help him and
Sir Ralph rescue Beechy and Aunt Kathryn, which was rather like looking
for needles in a haystack.
By the time we had all got our breath and wiped the clover out of our
eyes, horse and cart had vanished comet-like into the horizon, leaving a
green trail behind. We bailed out the car and started gaily on once more, but
presently our speed slackened. Without a sigh the automobile stopped
precisely in the middle of the road, and gently, though firmly, refused to go
on again.
When Mr. Barrymore saw that this was more than a passing whim, he
called Sir Ralph to the rescue, Beechy and I jumped out, and the car was
pushed to one side. Then, with all of us standing round, he proceeded to
search for the mischief. Apparently nothing was wrong. The engine was
cool; the pump generously inclined, and fat yellow fireflies flew out of the
sparking-plugs when they were tested. Then Mr. Barrymore remembered
the cause of the Prince's first accident, and looked at the carburetter; but
there was not so much as a speck of dust. For a while he continued to poke,
and prod, and hammer, Sir Ralph offering humorous advice, and pretending
to be sure that, if his housekeeper Félicité were on the spot, the car would
start for her in an instant. The mystery only thickened, however, and to
make matters worse the Prince, who had been proudly spinning on ahead,
came tearing back to see what had happened. Though he pretended to be
sympathetic, he was visibly overjoyed at our misfortune, which turned the
tables upon us for once, and his suggestions were enough to wreck the

valvular system of a motor-car; not to mention the nervous system of a
distracted chauffeur.
"Perhaps the petrol's dead," said Mr. Barrymore, paying no heed to the
Prince's ideas. He opened a new tin and was about to empty its contents into
the reservoir, when he uttered an exclamation. "By Jove! Just look at that,
Miss Destrey!" he said; and I couldn't help feeling flattered that he should
appeal to me on a subject I didn't know anything about.
He was peering at the small round air-hole leading down to the reservoir,
so I peered too, and in spite of my ignorance I saw what he meant. The hole
was entirely stopped up with the body of a pinkish-grey caterpillar, and Mr.
Barrymore explained that the poor car had simply stopped because it
couldn't breathe. No air had been able to reach the petrol in the reservoir,
and therefore no spirit had trickled through to the carburetter.
We had been delayed for more than half an hour by a mere worm, which
had probably arrived with the clover; but when the automobile could fill her
lungs again she started on at a great pace. We passed a wonderful old
riverside town, that had one of the most remarkable churches we had seen
yet; and by-and-by a fine city, set like a tiara on the forehead of a distant
hill, seemed to spring up, peer at us from its eminence, and then dip down
out of sight among other hills which made a dark foreground against white
mountains.
It was Bergamo; and not once did we see it again until we were almost in
the place, when it deigned to show itself once more—an old, old city on a
height, a newer city extended at its feet in a plain.
"This town is packed full of interesting things," said Mr. Barrymore. "I
stayed here two days once, at a nice old-fashioned hotel with domed,
painted ceilings, marble walls and mahogany mantle-pieces which would
have delighted you. And even then I hadn't half time for the two or three
really fine churches, and the Academy, where there are some Bellinis, a
Palma Vecchio, and a lot of splendid Old Masters. Bergamo claims Tasso,
perhaps you remember, because his father was born here; and Harlequin,
you know, was supposed to be a Bergamese."
"Oughtn't we to stop and see the pictures?" I asked.

"We ought. But one never does stop where one ought to, motoring.
Besides, you'll see the best work of the same artists at Venice and as we
want to reach Desenzano for dinner we had better push on."
We did push on but not far. Unless the main road runs straight into a town
and out of it again it is often difficult to discover the exit from Italian cities
like those through which we passed, and Mr. Barrymore seemed always
reluctant to inquire. When I remarked on this once, thinking it simpler to
ask a question of some one in the street rather than take a false turn, he
answered that automobilists never asked the way; they found it. "I can't
explain," he went on, "but I believe other men who drive cars share the
same peculiarity with me; I never ask help from a passer-by if I can
possibly fish out the way for myself. It isn't rational of course. Sometimes I
could save a détour if I would stop and ask; but I prefer to plunge on and
make a mistake rather than admit that a mere man on legs can teach me
anything I don't know. It seems somehow to degrade the automobile."
The argument was too subtle for me, not being an automobilist; and on
trying to get out of Bergamo, Mr. Barrymore made one of his little détours.
The road twisted; and instead of finding the one towards Brescia it
happened that we went down a broad way which looked like a high road,
but happened to be only a cul de sac leading to the railway station. We were
annoyed for a minute, but we were to rejoice in the next.
Seeing his error, Mr. Barrymore had just turned the car and was circling
round, when two men stepped into the middle of the road and held up their
hands. They appeared so suddenly that they made me start. They were very
tall and very grave, dressed alike, in long black coats buttoned to their
chins, black gloves, and high black hats. Each carried an oaken staff.
"They're mutes," said Sir Ralph as Mr. Barrymore put on the brake.
"They've come to warn us that there's going to be a funeral, and we must
clear out for the procession."
The pair looked so sepulchral, I thought he must be right, though I'd
never seen any "funeral mutes." But Mr. Barrymore answered in a low
voice, "No, they're policemen. I wonder what's up?" Then, aloud, he
addressed the melancholy black beanpoles; but to my surprise, instead of

using his fluent Italian to lubricate the strained situation, he spoke in
English.
"Good day. Do you want something with me?"
Of course they didn't understand. How could they have been expected to?
But they did not look astonished. Their black coats were too tight round
their necks for them to change expression easily. One began to explain his
object or intention, with gentle patience, in soft Italian—so soft that I could
have burst out laughing at the thought of the contrast between him and a
New York policeman.
Now almost my whole knowledge of Italian has been gained since Aunt
Kathryn decided to take this trip, for then I immediately bought a phrase-
book, a grammar, and "Doctor Antonio" translated into the native tongue of
hero and author, all of which I've diligently studied every evening. Mr.
Barrymore, on the contrary, speaks perfectly. I believe he could even think
in Italian if he liked; nevertheless I could understand a great deal that the
thin giant said, while he apparently was hopelessly puzzled.
Even without an accompaniment of words, the policeman's pantomime
was so expressive, I fancy I should have guessed his meaning. With the
grieved dignity of a father taking to task an erring child, he taxed us with
having damaged a cart and injured a horse, causing it to run away. He
pointed to the distance. With an arching gesture he illustrated a mound of
hay (or clover?) rising from the vehicle; with a quick outward thrust of
hands and widespread fingers he pictured the alarm and frantic rush of the
horse; he showed us the creature running, then falling, then limping as if
hurt; he touched his knees to indicate the place of the wound. What could
the most elementary intelligence need more to comprehend? Certainly it
was enough for the crowd collected about us; but it was not enough for Mr.
Barrymore, who is an Irishman, and cleverer about everything than any man
I ever met. He sat still, with an absolutely vacant though conscientious look
on his face, as if he were trying hard to snatch at an idea, but hadn't
succeeded. When the policeman finished, Mr. Barrymore sadly shook his
head. "I wonder what you mean?" he murmured mildly in English.
The Italian retold the story, his companion throwing a word into a pause
now and then. Both patient men articulated with such careful nicety that the

syllables fell from their mouths like clear-cut crystals. But Mr. Barrymore
shook his head again; then, suddenly, with a joyous smile he seized a
pocket-book from inside his coat. From this he tore out an important-
looking document stamped with a red seal, and pointed from it to a
lithographed signature at the foot.
"Foreign Secretary; Lansdowne—Lord Lansdowne," he repeated.
"Inglese. Inglese and Italiani sempre amici. Yes?" His smile embraced not
only the long-suffering policemen but the crowd, who nodded their heads
and laughed. Having made this effect, Mr. Barrymore whipped out another
impressive paper, which I could see was his permis de Conduire from the
Department of Mines in Nice.
He pointed to the official stamp on this document, and with the childlike
pride of one who stammers a few words of a foreign tongue, he exclaimed,
"Nizza. Nizza la bella." With this, he looked the giants so full and kindly in
the face, and seemed to be so greatly enjoying himself, that every one
laughed again, and two young men cheered, appearing to be rather ashamed
of themselves afterwards. Then, as if every requirement must at last be
satisfied, he made as if to go on. But the conscientious comrades, though
evidently faint and discouraged, hadn't yet given up hope or played their
last card, despite the yards of English red tape with which those two
stamped papers had fed their appetite for officialism.
The taller of the pair laid his black glove on our mud-guard, cracked by
the flapping tyre days ago, and to be mended (I'd heard Mr. Barrymore say)
at the garage in Mestre. With such dramatic gestures as only the Latin races
command, he attempted to prove that the mud-guard must have been broken
in the collision near Bergamo, of which his mind was full
.
At last our Chauffeulier comprehended something. He jumped out of the
throbbing car, and in his turn went through a pantomime. From a drawer
under the seat he produced the rubber skin that had come off our tyre,
showed how it fitted on, how it had become detached, and how it had
lashed the mud-guard as we moved. Everybody, including the policemen,
displayed the liveliest interest in this performance. The instant it was over,
Mr. Barrymore took his place again, coiled up the rubber snake, and this

time without asking leave, but with a low bow to the representatives of
local law, drove the car smartly back into the town. What could the
thwarted giants do after such an experience but stand looking after us and
make the best of things?
"It was our salvation that we'd lost our way and were driving towards
Bergamo instead of out," said the conqueror triumphantly. "You see, they
thought probably they'd got hold of the wrong car, as the accused one had
been coming from Lecco. What with that impression, and their despair at
my idiocy, they were ready to give us the benefit of the doubt and save their
faces. Otherwise, though we were innocent and the driver of the cart merely
'trying it on,' we might have been hung up here for ten days."
"Oh, could they have hung us?" gasped Aunt Kathryn. "What a dreadful
thing Italian law must be."
Then we all laughed so much that she was vexed, and when Beechy
called her a "stupid little Mamma," snapped back that anyhow she wasn't
stupid enough to forget her Italian—if she knew any—just when it was
needed.
She is too sweet-tempered to be cross for long, however, and the way
towards Brescia was so charming that she forgot her annoyance. Though the
surface was not so good as it had been, it was not too bad; and our noble
tyres, which had borne so much, seemed to spurn the slight irregularities.
With every twenty yards we had a new view, as if the landscape slowly
turned, to assume different patterns like the pieces in a kaleidoscope. On
our left the mountains appeared to march on with us always, white and
majestic, with strange, violet shadows floating mysteriously.
Set back from the roadside, behind rich meadows rippling with gold and
silver grain, were huge farmhouses, with an air of dignity born of self-
respect and venerable age. We had pretty garden glimpses, too, and once in
a while passed a fine mansion, good enough to call itself a château so long
as there were no real ones in the neighbourhood. Often chestnut-trees in full
glory of white blossom, as if blazing with fairy candles, lined our way for
miles. There was snow of hawthorne too—"May," our two men called it—
and ranks of little feathery white trees, such as I knew no name for, looking
like a procession of brides, or young girls going to their first communion.

Then, to brighten the white land with colour, there were clumps of lilac,
clouds of rose-pink apple blossoms, blue streaks that meant beds of violets,
and a yellow fire of iris rising straight and bright as flame along the edges
of green, roadside streams.
Just as we came into a splendid old Italian town, thunder began to growl
like a lion hiding in the mountains. A few drops of rain splashed on our
motor-hoods, and a sudden chill wind gathered up the sweet country scents
into one bouquet to fling at us.
"Here we are at Brescia. Shall we stop for the storm and have tea?" asked
Mr. Barrymore.
Aunt Kathryn said "yes" at once, for she doesn't like getting wet, and
can't bear to have the rain spray on her face, though I love it. So we drove
quickly through streets, each one of which made a picture with its old
brown palaces, its stone steps with pretty women chatting in groups under
red umbrellas, its quaint bridge flung across the river, or its pergola of
vines. Past a magnificent cathedral we went as the bells rang for vespers,
and children, young girls, old black-shawled women, smart soldiers, and
gallant-looking, tall officers answered their call. Thus we arrived at a quaint
hotel, with a garden on the river's edge; and under a thick arbour of
chestnut-trees (impervious to floods) we drank coffee and ate heart-shaped
cakes, while the thunder played wild music for us on a vast cathedral organ
in the sky.
"No wonder the soldiers are smart and the officers fine," said the
Chauffeulier, in answer to a remark of mine which Beechy echoed. "Brescia
deserves them more than most towns of Italy, for you know she has always
been famous for the military genius and courage of her men, and once she
was second only to Milan in importance. Venice—whose vassal she was—
had a right to be proud of her. The history of the great siege, wherein
Bayard got the wound which he thought would be mortal, is as interesting
as a novel. 'The Escape of Tartaglia' and 'The Generosity of Bayard' are bits
that make you want to shout aloud."
"And yet we'll pass on, and see nothing, except those panorama-like
glimpses," I sighed. "Oh motoring, motoring, and motor maniacs!"

"How often one has that half-pleasant, half-regretful feeling about things
or people one flashes by on the road," soliloquized Sir Ralph, pleasantly
resigned to the pain of parting. I have it continually, especially about some
of the beautiful, dark-eyed girls I see, and leave behind before I've fairly
catalogued their features. I say to myself, "Lovely flower of beauty, wasted
in the dust of the roadside. Alas! I leave you for ever. What is to be your
fate? Will you grow old soon, under your peasant-burdens and cares? How
sad it is that I shall never know your history."
"It wouldn't be a bit interesting," said Beechy. "But I suppose that theory
won't comfort you any more than it did Maida the other day, when she tried
too late to save a fly from dying in some honey, and I consoled her by
saying it probably wasn't at all a nice fly, if one had known it."
"No, it doesn't console me," Sir Ralph complained. "Still, there's a certain
thrill in the thought of bursting like a thunderbolt into the midst of other
people's tragedies, comedies, or romances, just catching a fleeting glimpse
of their possibilities and tearing on again. But there are some creatures we
meet that I'm glad to lose sight of. Not those who glare anarchically,
unconsciously betraying their outlook on life; not the poor slow old people
who blunder in the way, and stare vacantly up at our fiery chariot—so
strange a development of the world for them; not the dogs that yelp, and are
furious if we don't realize that they're frightening us. No, but the horrid little
jeering boys, who run beside the car at their best speed when we're forging
up perpendicular hills on our lowest. These are the creatures I would wipe
out of existence with one fierce wish, if I had it in me. To think that they—
they—should have the power to humiliate us. I don't get back my self-
respect till we're on a level, or my joie de vivre until we're shooting
downhill, and can hold our own with a forty horse-power motor, to say
nothing of a one-horse, Italian village boy."
"What a revelation of vindictiveness, where one would least expect it!"
exclaimed Mr. Barrymore. "But the rain's over. Shall we go on?" And we all
agreed eagerly, as we probably should in Paradise, if it were a question of
motoring.

XVIII

A CHAPTER ACCORDING TO SHAKSPERE

"Another Cuneo!" groaned Aunt Kathryn, at sight of the hotel in the steep
little town of Desenzano, on Lake Garda; but later she apologized to the
quaint court-yard for her misunderstanding, and was more than tolerant of
her vast bedroom draped with yellow satin, and opening on an arboured
terrace worthy even of a Countess Dalmar.
For miles our way towards Verona next morning was pink and white with
chestnut bloom. Even the shadows seemed warmly pink under the long
unbroken arch of flowering trees. Far away, behind the green netting of
their branches, we caught blue flashes of lake and mountain peaks of
amethyst, while Beechy wished for a dozen noses dotted about here and
there at convenient intervals on her body, so that she might make the most
of the perfumed air. "But you would want them all cut off when you got to
the nearest town," remarked Aunt Kathryn.
Ever since Brescia, the road had been so smooth and well kept that it was
as if we had come into a different country; but Mr. Barrymore said it was
because we were now under the jurisdiction of Venice—Venice, as rich and
practical as romantic. And I had to repeat the name over and over in my
mind—Verona and Padua too—to make myself believe that we were
actually so near.
Horses were better trained in this district, and "knew a motor when they
saw it." Even a drove of sheep (near the wonderful fortress of Peschiera
with its coiled python of a river) seemed comparatively indifferent as they
surged round us in a foaming wave of wool. But then, sheep have no facial
expression. All other four-footed things show emotion by a change of
countenance, just as human beings do—more, because they don't conceal
their feelings—but sheep look as if they wore foolishly smiling masks.
Even when, as their ranks closed in around the automobile, we broke a
chain with a pretty little tinkling noise, and some of the sheep tripped up on
it, they did nothing but smile and merely mention "ba-a" in an indifferent,
absent-minded way.
"If you only knew how much nicer you are with mint sauce!" Beechy
taunted them, as we swept round a corner and were in the labyrinth of the

fortress, which was, our men told us, part of the once famous quadrilateral
that made trouble for Italy in '48.
"There's something pathetic about old, obsolete forts as grand as
Peschiera," Mr. Barrymore said to me. "So much thought and money spent,
the best military science of the day employed to make a stronghold as
feeble against modern arms as a fort of cards. Such a fortress seems like an
aged warrior, past his fighting days, or an old hunting dog, as keen on the
chase as ever, poor fellow, but too old to move from before the fire, where
he can only lie and dream of past triumphs."
"I was thinking almost exactly the same!" I exclaimed, and I liked Mr.
Barrymore all the better; for it draws you nearer to a person when you find
that your thoughts resemble each other in shape and colour. Oddly enough,
it's often so with Mr. Barrymore and me; which is the reason it's so
agreeable to have the place beside him when he drives.
No more than half a dozen miles from Peschiera we saw the Tower of
San Martino, raised on the great battlefield of Solferino. By this time we
had left the lake behind; but we had exchanged the low, amethyst mountains
for tall white ones, glorious pinnacles of snow which were the higher
Austrian Alps. Everything was impressive on this road to Verona, even the
farmhouses, of an entirely different character from those of the "yesterday
country;" and then, at last, we came in sight of Verona herself, lying low
within a charmed circle of protecting hills, on which castles and white villas
looked down from among cypresses and rose-pink almond trees.
I was glad that the gateway by which we entered Verona was the finest
through which we had passed, for though Mr. Barrymore called the town
"an inn for the great travellers of history," it was more for me. It was the
home of romance; for was it not Juliet's home and Romeo's?
That gateway, and the splendid old crenellated bridge of dark red brick
(toning deliciously with the clear, beryl-green of the swift-rushing Adda)
made a noble, preface for the city. And then, each old, old street into which
we turned was a new joy. What lessons for modern architects in those time-
softened brick façades, with the moulded arches of terra-cotta framing the
green open-work of the shutters!

I began to feel a sense of exaltation, as if I had listened to an anthem
played by a master hand on a cathedral organ. I couldn't have told any one,
but I happened to glance at Mr. Barrymore, and he at me, just as he had
driven into the piazza where Dante's house looks down over the tombs of
the Scaligers. Then he smiled, and said, "Yes, I know. I always feel like
that, too, when I come here—but even more in Venice."
"How am I feeling?" I asked, smiling with him.
"Oh, a little bit as if your soul had got out of your body and taken a bath
in a mountain spring, after you'd been staggering up some of the steep paths
of life in the dust and sun. Isn't that it?"
"Yes. Thank you," I answered. And we seemed to understand each other
so well that I was almost frightened.
"I want all these streets for mine," said Beechy, in a chattering mood.
"Oh, and especially the market-place, with that strange old fountain, and the
booths under the red umbrellas like scarlet mushrooms. Mamma, have you
got money enough to buy them for me, and have them packed up in a big
box with dried moss, like the toy villages, and expressed to Denver?"
"Speaking of dried moss, all these lovely old churches and palaces and
monuments look as if history had covered them with a kind of delicate
lichen," I said, more to Mr. Barrymore than to Beechy. "And it enhances
their beauty, as the lace of a bride's veil enhances the beauty of her face."
"Or a nun's veil," cut in Beechy. I wonder why she says things like that so
often lately? Well, perhaps it's best that I should be reminded of my
vocation, but it gives me a cold, desolate feeling for a minute, and seems to
throw a constraint upon us all.
We had made the Chauffeulier stop three or four times in every street to
look at some beautiful bit; a gate of flexible iron-work that even Ruskin
must have admired, the doorway of a church, the wonderful windows of a
faded palace; but suddenly I felt ready to go to the hotel, where we were to
stop for the night, that we might do our sight-seeing slowly.
It was a delightful hotel, itself once a palace, and to be there was to be "in
the picture," in such a place as Verona. The Prince had arrived before us, as

his motor is retrieving its reputation, and we all lunched together, making
plans for the afternoon.
As usual, he was blasé—so different from Mr. Barrymore, who has seen
the best things in Italy as often as Prince Dalmar-Kalm has, yet never tires;
indeed, finds something new each time.
The Prince began by announcing that Verona bored him. But one could
always go to sleep.
"That's what I mean to do," said Aunt Kathryn, who generally takes her
cue from him. "I consider that I've seen Verona now, and I shall lie down
this afternoon. Perhaps later I shall write a few letters in the hall."
I was unkind enough to fancy this a hint for the Prince, but perhaps I
wronged her. And anyway, why should she not give him hints if she likes?
He has been very attentive to her, although for the last few days I don't
think they have been quite so much in "each others' pockets" (as Beechy
calls it) as before.
A little attention was needed by the automobile, it appeared—such as a
tightening up of chains, and a couple of lost grease-cups to replace;
therefore Mr. Barrymore's time would be filled up without any sight-seeing.
But Sir Ralph offered to take Beechy and me anywhere we liked to go. I
was very glad that the Prince said nothing about accompanying us, for
somehow I'd been afraid he would.
We consulted guide-books until we were bewildered, but in the midst of
confusion I held fast to two things. We had seen Romeo's house, towering
picturesquely behind the Scaligers' tombs; but I wanted to see where Juliet
had lived, and where she had been buried.
"The Prince says it's all nonsense," exclaimed Aunt Kathryn. "If there
was a slight foundation for the story in a great family scandal here about
Shakspere's time, anyhow there's none for the houses or the tomb—"
Beechy stopped her ears. "You're real mean," she said, "you and the
Prince both. It's just as bad as when you thought it your duty to tell me there
was no Santa Claus. But I don't care; there is. I shall believe it when I'm
seventeen; and I believe in the Romeo and Juliet houses too."

But when we were in the street of Juliet's house—she and Sir Ralph and I
—Beechy pouted. Standing with her hands behind her, her long braids of
hair dangling half-way down her short skirt as she threw back her head to
gaze up, she looked incredibly modern and American. "There were no
tourists' agencies in those days," she remarked, regretfully, "so I suppose
Shakspere had to trust to hearsay, and somebody must have told him a big
tarradiddle. I guess Juliet was really on a visit to an aunt in the country
when she first met Romeo, for fancy a girl in her senses yelling down from
that balcony up at the top of a tall house to any lover, let alone a secret one?
Besides, there wouldn't have been enough rope in Verona to make the
ladder for Romeo to climb up."
After this speech, I decided that, fond as I really am of her, I could not
visit Juliet's tomb in Beechy's society. I gave no hint of my intentions, but
after an exquisite hour (which nobody could spoil) in that most adorable of
churches, San Zenone, and another in Sant' Anastasia, I slipped away while
Beechy and Sir Ralph were picking out the details of St. Peter's life on the
panels of a marvellous pilaster.
We had had a cab by the hour; and when they should discover my
absence, they would take it for granted that I had got tired and gone home.
They would then proceed to carry out their programme of sight-seeing very
happily without me, for Beechy amuses Sir Ralph immensely, child as she
is, and she makes no secret of taking pleasure in his society. She teases him,
and he likes it; he draws her out, and her wit brightens in the process.
I hurried off when their backs were turned. Not far away I found a
prowling cab, and told the man to drive me to Juliet's tomb. He stared, as if
in surprise, for I suppose girls of our class don't go about much alone in
Italian towns; but he condescended to accept me as a fare. However, to
show his disapproval maybe, he rattled me through streets old and beautiful,
ugly and modern (why should most modern things be ugly, even in Italy?)
at a tremendous pace. At last he stopped before a high, blank wall, in a most
dismal region, apparently the outskirts of the town. I would hardly believe
that he had brought me to the right place, but he reassured me. In the
distance another cab was approaching, probably on the same errand. I rang
a bell, and a gate was opened by a nice-looking woman, who knew well
what I wanted without my telling, and she spoke so clearly that I was able

to understand much of what she said. Instead of feeling that the romance of
visiting Juliet's burial-place was destroyed by traversing the great open
square of the communal stables, where an annual horse show is held, I was
conscious of a strange charm in the unsuitable surroundings. It was like
coming upon a beautiful white pearl in a battered old oyster-shell, to pass
through this narrow gateway at the far end of a dusty square, and find
myself face to face with a glimmering tomb in a quiet cloister.
The strong contrast between the sordid exterior and this dainty, hidden
interior was nothing less than dramatic. The lights and shadows played
softly at hide-and-seek, like dumb children, over the grass, among the
pillars of the little cloister, over the tomb itself. I was thankful to be alone,
troubled by no fellow-tourists, safe from little Beechy's too comical fancies,
free to be as sentimental as I liked. And I liked to be very sentimental
indeed.
I stood by the tomb, feeling almost like a mourner, when a voice made
me start. "Is it Juliet's spirit?" asked Prince Dalmar-Kalm.
I would rather it had been any one else. "How odd that you should come
here!" I exclaimed, while my face must have shown that the surprise was
not too pleasant.
"It is not at all odd. You are here," answered the Prince. "You said at
déjeuner that you were coming, if you had to come alone. Eh bien? I saw
Miss Beechy and Sir Ralph Moray driving together, deep in Baedeker. My
heart told me where you were; and I arrive to find you looking like Juliet
come to life again. Perhaps it is so indeed. Perhaps you were Juliet in
another incarnation. Yes, I feel sure you were. And I was Romeo."
"I'm sure you were not," I replied; but I could not help laughing at his
stagey manner, though I was more annoyed than ever now, and annoyed
with myself too. "I particularly wished to be alone here, or I wouldn't have
slipped away from Beechy and Sir Ralph, so—"
"And I particularly wished to be alone here with you, or I wouldn't have
followed when you had slipped away from them," he broke in. "Oh, Miss
Destrey—my Madeleine, you must listen to me. There could be no place in

the world more appropriate to the tale of a man's love for a woman than
this, where a man and woman died for love of one another."
"I thought you called all this 'nonsense'?" I cut him short. "No, Prince,
neither here nor anywhere must you speak of love to me, for I don't love
you, and never could."
"I know that you mean to shut yourself away from the world," he
interrupted me again. "But you shall not. It would be sacrilege. You—the
most beautiful, the most womanly girl in the world—to—"
"No more, please!" I cried. "It doesn't matter what my future is to be, for
you will not be in it. I—"
"I must be in it. I adore you. I can't give you up. Haven't you seen from
the first how I loved you?"
"I thought I saw you liked trying to flirt when no one was looking. That
sounds rather horrid, but—it's the truth."
"You misjudged me cruelly. Have you no human ambition? I could place
you among the highest in any land. With me, your beauty should shine as it
never could in your own country. Is it nothing to you that I can make you a
Princess?"
"Less than nothing," I answered, "though perhaps it would be pretty of
me to thank you for wanting to make me one. So I do thank you; and I'll
thank you still more if you will go now, and leave me to my thoughts."
"I cannot go till I have made you understand how I love you, how
indispensable you are to me," he persisted. And I grew really angry; for he
had no right to persecute me, when I had refused him.
"Very well, then, I shall go," I said, and would have passed him, but he
seized my hand and held it fast.
It was this moment that Mr. Barrymore chose for paying his respects to
Juliet's tomb; and I blushed as I have never blushed in my life, I think—
blushed till the tears smarted in my eyes. I was afraid he would believe that
I'd been letting Prince Dalmar-Kalm make love to me. But there was
nothing to say, unless I were willing to have a scene, and that would have

been hateful. Nor was there anything to do except the obvious thing, snatch
my hand away; and that might seem to be only because some one had come.
But how I should have loved to box the Prince's ears! I never dreamed that I
had such a temper. I suppose, though, there must be something of the
fishwife in every woman—something that comes boiling up to the surface
once in a while, and makes noblesse oblige hard to remember.
The one relief to my feelings in this situation was given by my queer
little new pet—the wisp of a black doggie I've named Airole, after the
village where he grew. I'd brought him into the cloister in my arms hidden
under a cape, because he had conceived a suspicious dislike of the cabman.
Now he said all the things to the Prince that I wanted to say, and more, and
would have snapped, if the Prince had not retired his hand in time.
The process of quieting Airole gave me the chance to make up my mind
what I should do next. If I went away, I couldn't prevent Prince Dalmar-
Kalm from going with me, and Mr. Barrymore would have a right to
imagine that I wished to continue the interrupted scene. If I stayed it was
open for him to fancy that I wanted to be with him; but between two evils
one chooses the less; besides, a nice thing about Mr. Barrymore is that,
notwithstanding his good looks and cleverness, he's not conceited—not
conceited enough, I sometimes think, for he lets people misunderstand his
position and often seems more amused than angry at a snub.
Acting on my quick decision, I said, "Oh, I'm glad you've come. You
know so much about Verona. Please talk to me of this place—only don't say
it isn't authentic, for that would be a jarring note."
"I'm afraid I don't care enough whether things are authentic or not," he
answered, both of us ignoring the Prince. "You know, in my country, legend
and history are a good deal mixed, which makes for romance. Besides, I'm
inclined to believe in stories that have been handed down from generation
to generation—told by grandfathers to their grandchildren, and so on
through the centuries till they've reached us. When they're investigated by
the cold light of reason, at least they can seldom be disproved."
I agreed, and the conversation went on, deliberately excluding the Prince.
Each minute I said to myself, "Surely he'll go." But he did not. He stayed
while Mr. Barrymore and I discussed the genius of Shakspere, chiming in

now and then as if nothing had happened, and remaining until we were
ready to go.
At the cab there was another crisis. I hadn't yet entirely realized the
Prince's stupendous capacity for what Beechy would put into one short,
sharp word "Cheek." But I fully appreciated it when he calmly manifested
his intention of getting into my cab, as if we had come together.
Something had to be done instantly, or it would be too late.
Leaning from my seat so that the Prince had to wait with his foot on the
step, I exclaimed, "Oh! Mr. Barrymore, won't you let me give you a lift?
Prince Dalmar-Kalm has his own cab, and I'm alone in this."
"Thanks very much, I shall be delighted," said the Chauffeulier.
Even the Prince's audacity wasn't equal to the situation created by these
tactics. He retired, hat in hand, looking so furious that I could hardly help
laughing. Mr. Barrymore got in beside me, and we drove off leaving the
Prince with nobody but his own cabman to vent his rage on.
I rather hoped, for a minute, that Mr. Barrymore would say something
which would give me the chance for a vague word or two of explanation;
but he didn't. He simply talked of indifferent things, telling me how the
work on the car was finished, and how he had had time after all to wander
among his favourite bits of Verona. And then, in a flash of understanding, I
saw how much more tactful and manly it was in him not to mention the
Prince.

XIX

A CHAPTER OF PALACES AND PRINCES

What a pity clocks don't realize the interesting work they do in the
making of history, as they go on ticking out moments which never before
have been and never will be again! It would be such a reward for their
patience; and I should like my watch to know how often I've thanked it
lately for the splendid moments it has given me.

Some of those I had in Verona (no thanks to the Prince!) have really
helped to develop my soul, and it used to need developing badly, poor dear;
I see that now, though I didn't then. I never thought much about the
development of souls, except that one must try hard to be good and do one's
duty. But now I begin dimly to see many things, as if I caught glimpses of
them, far away, and high up on some of the snowy mountain-tops we pass.
Must one live through several incarnations, I wonder, for true
development? Are some people great-minded because they have gone
through many such phases, and are the wondrous geniuses of the world—
such as Shakspere—the most developed of all? Then the poor commonplace
or stupid people, who never have any real thoughts of their own, are they
the undeveloped souls who haven't had their chance yet? If they are, how
kind those who have gone further ought to be to them, and what generous
allowances they ought to make, instead of being impatient, and pleased with
themselves because they are cleverer.
I think I should like to send whole colonies of those poor "beginners" to
Italy to live for a while, because it might give them a step up for their next
phase. As for myself, I'm going further every day, almost as fast, I hope, as
the automobile goes.
"She," as the Chauffeulier affectionately calls her, went especially fast
and well the morning we swept out of Verona. There was an entrancing
smell of Italy in the air. There is no other way to describe it—it is that and
nothing else
.
As long as Verona was still within sight, I kept looking back, just as you
drink something delicious down to the last drop, when you know there can
be no dregs. Only to see how the town lay at the foot of the mountains of
the north, was to understand its powers of defence, and its importance to the
dynasties and princes of the past. With Mr. Barrymore's help, I could trace
one line of fortification after another, from the earliest Roman, through
Charlemagne and the Scaligers, down to the modern Austrian.
No wonder that Verona was the first halting-place for the tribes of
Germans, pouring down from their cold forests in the north to cross the

Alps and rejoice in the sunshine of Italy! For Verona's nearness to the north
and her striking difference to the north impressed me sharply, as a black line
of shadow is cut out by the sun. Up a gap in the dark barrier of mountains I
gazed where Mr. Barrymore pointed, towards the great Brenner Pass,
leading straight to Innsbruck through Tyrol. How close the northern nations
lay, yet in the warm Italian brightness how far away they seemed.
But soon Verona disappeared, and we were speeding along a level road
with far-off purple peaks upon our left, and away in front some floating
blue shapes which it thrilled me to hear were actually the Euganean Hills.
The Chauffeulier set them to music by quoting from Shelley's "Lines
Written in Dejection in the Euganean Hills"—a sweet old-fashioned title of
other days, and words so beautiful that for a moment I was depressed in
sympathy—though I couldn't help feeling that I should be happy in the
Euganean Hills. They called across the plain with siren voices, asking me to
come and explore their fastnesses of blue and gold, but Aunt Kathryn
couldn't understand why. "They're not half so imposing as lots of mountains
we've passed," she said. "And anyway, I think the beauty of mountains is
overestimated. What are they to admire so much, anyhow, when you think
of it, more than flat places? They are only great lumps at best."
"Well," replied Sir Ralph, "if it comes to that, what's the sea but a big wet
thing?"
"And what are people but a kind of superior ant, and the grandest palaces
but big anthills?" Beechy chimed in. "I've often thought, supposing there
were—well, Things, between gods and men, living here somewhere,
invisible to us as we are to lots of little creatures, what kind of an idea
would They get of us and our ways? They'd be always spying on us, of
course, and making scientific observations, as we do on insects. I used to
believe in Them, and be awfully afraid, when I was younger, because I used
to think all the accidents and bad things that happened might be due to
Their experiments. You see They'd be wondering why we did certain things;
why lots of us all run to one place—like Venice, or any show city—instead
of going to another nest of anthills; or why we all crowded into one anthill
(like a church or theatre) at a particular time. So a theatre-fire would be
when They'd touched the anthill with one of their cigars, to make the ants
run out. Or a volcano would have an eruption because They'd poked the

mountain with a great pin to see what would happen. Or when we're cut or
hurt in any way, it's because They've marked us to know one from the other,
as we run about. I do hope They're not thinking about us now, or They'll
drop something and smash the automobile."
"Oh, don't, Beechy! You make my blood run cold!" cried Aunt Kathryn.
"Do let's talk of something else quickly. How gracefully the vines are
trained here, draped along those rows of trees in the meadows. It's much
prettier than ordinary vineyards. You might imagine fairies playing tag
under these arbours."
"Or fauns chasing nymphs," said Sir Ralph. "No doubt they did a few
years ago and caught them too."
"I'm glad they don't now," replied Aunt Kathryn, "or this would be no fit
place for ladies to motor."
But I wasn't glad, for the whole country was one wide background for a
pre-Raphaelite picture, and the mountains to which Aunt Kathryn had
applied so insulting a simile were even grander in size and nobler in shape
than before. We had seen many old châteaux (though never a surfeit), but
the best of all had been reserved for to-day. Far away on our left, as we
drove towards Padua, it rose above the little town that crawled to the foot of
the castle's hill to beg protection; and it was exactly like a city painted by
Mantegna or Carpaccio, Mr. Barrymore said. Up the hill ran the noblest and
biggest wall that an Old Master's imagination could have conceived. Many
men might walk on it abreast; and at every few yards it bristled with sturdy
watch-towers, not ruined, but looking as ready to defy the enemy to-day as
they were six hundred years ago. The culmination was the castle itself, so
magnificently proportioned, so worthily proud of its place, that it seemed as
if the spirit of the Middle Ages were there embodied, gazing down in
haughty resignation upon a new world it did not even wish to understand.
The name of the castle was Soave; but when I heard that nothing startling
enough to please me had happened there, I wouldn't know its history, for
my fancy was equal to inventing one more thrilling. There was plentiful
sensation, though, in the stories the Chauffeulier could tell of Napoleon's
battles and adventures in this neighbourhood. I listened to them eagerly,
especially to that which covered his falling into a marsh while fighting the

Austrians, and standing there, unable to get out, while the battle of Arcole
raged around him. We were at the point of the rescue and the victory of the
French, when we arrived at another gateway, another octroi, another city, to
enter which was like driving straight into an old, old picture
.
In a long street of palaces, all with an elusive family resemblance to one
another, we paused for consultation. This was Vicenza, the birthplace and
beloved town of Palladio; these palaces with fronts crusted with bas relief;
these Corinthian pillars, these Arabesque balconies, these porticoes that
might have been stolen from Greek temples, all had been designed by
Palladio the Great. And the beautiful buildings seemed to say pensively, like
lovely court ladies whose day is past, "We are not what we were. Time has
changed and broken us, it is true; but even so we are worth seeing."
It was that view which our Chauffeulier urged, but Aunt Kathryn was for
going on without a stop, until Sir Ralph said, "It's not patriotic of you to
pass by. Palladio built your Capitol at Washington, and all the fine old
colonial houses you admire so much in the East."
"Dear me, did he?" exclaimed Aunt Kathryn. "Why, I never heard of
him."
"Moray doesn't mean his words to be taken undiluted," said Mr.
Barrymore. "If it hadn't been for Palladio, there would have been no Inigo
Jones and no Christopher Wren, therefore if you'd had a Capitol at all, it
wouldn't be what it is now. And to understand the colonial architecture of
America, you have to go back to Palladio."
"Well, here we are at him," sighed Aunt Kathryn. "But I hope we won't
have to get out?"
Mr. Barrymore laughed. "The Middle Ages revisited, en automobile!
However, I'll do my best as showman in the circumstances."
So he drove us into a splendid square, where Palladio was at his grandest
with characteristic façades, galleries, and stately colonnades. Then, slowly,
through the street of palaces and out into the open country once more—a
rich country of grain-fields (looking always as if an unseen hand softly

stroked their silver hair) and of hills swelling into a mountainous horizon.
There was a bright little flower-bordered canal too, and I've grown fond of
canals since the neighbourhood of Milan, finding them as companionable as
rivers, if more tame. Indeed, they seem like rivers that have gone to live in
town, where they've learned to be a bit stilted and mechanical in manner.
The farmhouses, standing but a short distance back from the level of the
road, were manorial in a queer way; two or three of them, exquisite old
things, their great roofed balconies covered with ivy and blossoming
creepers. The women we met were pretty, too—so pretty often that, as Sir
Ralph said, it wouldn't have been safe for them to walk out in the feudal
ages, as they would promptly have been kidnapped by the nearest seignior.
We might have guessed that we were not far out from Venice by the
gorgeous Titian hair of the peasant children playing by the wayside, or a
copper coil twisted above a girl's dark eyes.
"How long a time shall we spend in Padua, Countess?" asked the
Chauffeulier as we came within sight of a gateway, some domes and
campanili.
"Oh, don't let's make up our mind till we get there," replied Aunt Kathryn
comfortably.
"But we are there," said he. "In another minute the little men of the dazio
will be tapping our bags as a doctor taps his patient's lungs."
Padua! Each time that we actually arrived in one of these wonderful old
places, it was an electric shock for me. I had to shake myself, mentally, to
make it seem true. But if it was like a dream to enter the place of Petruchio's
love story, what would it be by-and-by—oh, a very quick-coming by-and-
by—to see Venice? I hardly dared let my thoughts go on to that moment for
fear they should get lost in it, and refuse to come back. Sufficient for the
day was the Padua thereof.
Not so beautiful as Verona, still the learned and dignified old city had a
curiously individual charm of its own, which I felt instantly. I loved the
painted palaces, especially those where most of the paint had worn off,
leaving but a lovely face, or some folds of a velvet robe, or a cardinal's hat
to hint its story to the imagination. The old arcaded streets were asleep, and

grass sprouted among the cobbles. Where they followed the river we had
glimpses of gardens and arbours backed with roses, or an almond tree—like
a rosy bride leaning on a soldier-lover's neck—peeped at us, side by side
with a dark ilex, over a high brick wall.
"How long ought we to stay in Padua?" Aunt Kathryn deigned to ask, as
if in delayed answer to the Chauffeulier's question, when he helped her out
of the car at the Stella d'Oro, where we were to lunch.
"A week," said Mr. Barrymore, his eyes twinkling.
Her face fell, and he took pity.
"If we weren't motor maniacs," he went on. "In that case we would have
come here on a solemn pilgrimage to do full justice to the adorable Giotto,
to the two best churches—not to be surpassed anywhere—and the dozen
and one other things worth seeing. But as we are mad we shall be able to
'do' Padua, and satisfy our consciences though not our hearts, in three hours.
My one consolation in this deplorable course, lies in the thought that it will
make it possible to give you your first sight of Venice between sunset and
moonrise."
Beechy clapped her hands, and my heart gave a throb. Somehow, my
eyes happened to meet Mr. Barrymore's. But I must not get into the habit of
letting them do that, when I'm feeling anything deeply. I can't think why it
seems so natural to turn to him, as if I'd known him always; but then we
have all got to be great friends on this trip, and know each other better than
if we'd been meeting in an ordinary way for a year. All except the Prince. I
leave him out of that statement, as I would leave him out of everything
concerning me nearly, if I could. I believe that none of us know him, or
what is in his mind. But sometimes there's a look in his eyes if one glances
up suddenly, which would almost frighten one, if it were not silly and
melodramatic. That is the only way in which he has troubled me since the
horrid little incident at Juliet's tomb—with these occasional, strange looks;
and as he wrote me a note of apology for his bad conduct then, I ought to
forgive and forget.
The hotel where we lunched was not in a quaint riverside street, but in a
square so modern it was hard to realize for the moment that we were in the

oldest city of Northern Italy, dating from before Roman days. However, the
Stella d'Oro was old enough to satisfy us, and I should have been delighted
with the nice Italian dishes Mr. Barrymore knew so well how to order, if I
hadn't been longing to rush off with a bit of bread in my hand, not to waste
a Paduan moment on so dull a deed as eating.
It was only twelve when we arrived, and before one we were out of the
huge, cool dining-room, and in the May sunlight again. The Prince was with
us; had been just ahead of us, or just behind us, all through the journey from
Verona. But I thought by keeping close to Aunt Kathryn and Beechy there
would be no danger that he would trouble me. Unfortunately, the pattern of
our progress arranged itself a little differently from my plan.
All was simple enough in the churches, which we visited first, not to give
them time to close up for their afternoon siesta. Mr. Barrymore was of the
party, and we all listened to him—the Prince because he must, we others
because we wished—while he ransacked his memory for bits of Paduan
history, legend or romance. He showed us the Giottos (which he had done
well to call adorable) at the Madonna of the Arena; he took us to pay our
respects to St. Anthony of Padua (that dear, obliging Saint who gives
himself so much trouble over the lost property of perfect strangers) in his
extraordinary and well-deserved Basilica of bubbly domes and lovely
cloisters. He guided us to Santa Giustina, where I would stop at the top of
the steps, to pet two glorious old red marble beasts which had crouched
there for four centuries. One of them—the redder of the two—had been all
that time wrestling with an infinitesimal St. George whom he ought to have
polished off in a few hours; while the other—the one with an unspeakable
beard under his chin and teeth like the gearing of our automobile—had been
engaged for the same period in eating a poor little curly lion.
The inside of the church—too strongly recommended by Baedeker to
commend itself to me—made me feel as if I had eaten a lemon water-ice
before dinner, on a freezing cold day; and it was there that the Chauffeulier
departed to get ready the motor-car. There it was, too, that the pattern
disarranged itself.
When we had finished looking at a splendid Paolo Veronese, we hurried
out into the Prato della Valle (which has changed its name to something else

not half so pretty, though more patriotic), and Sir Ralph took Beechy away,
so that Aunt Kathryn and I were left to the Prince. He hardly talked to her at
all, which hurt her feelings so much that she turned suddenly round, and
said she must speak to Beechy.
I could have cried, for the piazza was so beautiful that I wanted some one
congenial with me, to whom I could exclaim about it. It was girdled by a
belt of clear water, with four stone bridges and a double wall on which
stood a goodly company of noble gentlemen. There was the history of
Padua's greatness perpetuated in marble—charming personages, one and
all, if you could believe their statues, and it would have seemed treacherous
not to. Each stood to be admired or revered in the attitude most expressive
of his profession: Galileo pointing up, graceful, spiritual, enthusiastic; a
famous bishop blessing his flock; some great poet dreaming over a book—
his own, perhaps, just finished; and so on, all along the happy circle of
writers, priests, scientists, soldiers, artists. I felt as if I wanted to know them
—those faithful friends of all who love greatness, resting now in each
others' excellent society, their sole reflection those in the watery mirror.
But Prince Dalmar-Kalm thought himself of importance even in this
king's garden. "Did you get my letter?" he asked. "And do you forgive me?"
he said. "And will you trust me, and not be unkind, now that I've promised
to think of you only as a friend?" he persisted.
I didn't see why he should look upon me even as a friend; but a cat may
look at a king, if it doesn't fly up and scratch; so why not a prince at an
American girl? To save argument and not to be unchristian, I pledged
myself to some kind of superficial compact almost before I knew. When it
was done, it would have been too complicated to undo again; and so I let it
go.

XX

A CHAPTER IN FAIRYLAND

"Nobody can ever quite know Venice who goes by rail from Padua," said
the Chauffeulier to me, when we had started in the car. "The sixteen miles

of road between the two places is a link in Venetian history, and you'll
understand what I mean without any explanation as you pass along."
This made me post my wits at the windows of my eyes, and tell them not
to dare sleep for an instant, lest I should disappoint expectations. But, after
all, the meaning I had to understand was not subtle, though it was
interesting.
The way was practically one long street of time-worn palaces and
handsome villas which had once been the summer retreats of the rich
Venetians; and I guessed it without being told. I guessed, too, that the
owners came no more or seldom; that they were not so rich as they had
been, or that, because of railways and automobiles, it was easier and more
amusing to go further afield. But what I didn't know without telling was that
the proprietors had been accustomed, in the good old leisurely days, to step
into their gondolas in front of their own palaces in Venice and come up the
Brenta to their summer homes without setting foot to ground.
If I hadn't been told, too, that the Brenta was a river big in Venetian
history if not in size, I should have taken it for one of my favourite canals,
with its slow traffic of lazy barges, and its hundred canals crossing it with
long green arms that stretched north and south to the horizon. But at Stra I
must have respected it in any case; and it was near Stra, also, that we passed
the most important palace of any on that strange, flat road. The very garden
wall told that here was a house which must have loomed large in historic
eyes, and through magnificent gateways we caught flashing glimpses of a
noble building in a neglected park.
"It belonged to the Pisani, a famous family of Venice," said the
Chauffeulier as we sailed by. "But Napoleon took it—as he took so many
other good things in this part of the world—and gave it to his stepson
Eugène Beauharnais."
"I've never thought about Napoleon in connection with Venice,
somehow," I said.
"But you will, when your gondola takes you under the huge palace where
he lived," he answered.

"Talking of gondolas, I forgot to tell you what a nice plan the Prince has
for us," said Aunt Kathryn, with the air of breaking news. "As soon as I
mentioned at what time you had arranged to leave Padua, he said he would
telegraph to some dear friends of his at Venice, the Conte and Contessa
Corramini, to send their beautiful gondola to meet us at Mestre (wherever
that is) so that we needn't go into Venice by train across the bridge. Isn't that
lovely of him?"
No one would have answered if it hadn't been for Mr. Barrymore. He said
that it was a very good plan indeed, and would be pleasanter for us than the
one he had made, which he'd meant for a surprise. He had telegraphed from
Padua to the Hotel Britannia, where we would stay, ordering gondolas to
the tram-way station in Mestre to save our sneaking into Venice by the
back-door. Now those gondolas would do very well for our luggage, while
the party of five made the journey more luxuriously.
"Party of six, you mean, unless the Prince has had an accident," amended
Beechy.
"No; for I shan't be with you. I must drive the car to the garage at Mestre,
and see that she's all right. Moray'll be with you to arrange everything at the
Britannia, which you'll find one of the nicest places in the world, and I'll
come when I can. Now, here's the turning for Mestre, and you must look for
something interesting on the sky-line to the right, before long."
I couldn't help being disappointed, because I'd wanted the Chauffeulier to
be with us when I saw Venice first; but I couldn't say that; and I'm afraid he
thought, as everybody was silent, that nobody cared.
There was nothing to show the turning to Mestre, except a small tablet
that we might easily have missed; and the road was laughably narrow,
running along a causeway with a deep ditch on either hand. Aunt Kathryn
was so afraid that a horse would come round one of the sharp bends
walking on its hind legs, that she was miserable, but I trusted Mr.
Barrymore and enjoyed the country—real country now, with no more
palaces, villas, or beautiful arcaded farmhouses.
The distance was hidden by long, waving grasses, over which the blue
line of the Corinthian Alps seemed to hover like a cloud. There was a

pungent smell of salt and of seaweed in the air, that meant the nearness of
the lagoon—and Venice. Then, suddenly, the "something" Mr. Barrymore
had told us to look for, grew out of the horizon—dim and mysterious, yet
not to be mistaken; hyacinth-blue streaks that were pinnacles and campanili,
bubbles that were domes, floating between the gold of the sunset and the
grey-green of the tall grass, for no water was visible yet.
"Venice!" I whispered; but though Beechy and Aunt Kathryn each cried:
"Oh, there it is! I saw it first!" they were so absorbed in a discussion as to
what the Prince's friends ought to be called, and they soon lost interest in
the vision.
"Conte! It's like Condy's Fluid!" said Beechy. "I won't call him 'Conte.' I
should laugh in his face. If plain Count isn't good enough for him, and
Countess for her, I shall just say 'You'—so there!"
Soon we saw a great star-shaped fortress as we ran into a town, which
was Mestre; and at the same time we lost shadow-Venice. Passing a
charming villa set back behind an avenue of cypresses and plane trees that
gave an effect of dappling moonlight even in full day, some one in the tall
gateway waved his hand.
"By Jove, it's Leo Bari, the artist!" exclaimed Sir Ralph. "I forgot his
people lived here. I know him well; he comes to the Riviera to paint. Do
slow down, Terry."
So "Terry" slowed down, and a handsome, slim young man ran up,
greeting Sir Ralph gaily in English. He was introduced to us, and his sister,
a lovely Italian girl with Titian hair, was invited to leave the becoming
background of the gateway to make our acquaintance.
They were interested in the details of our tour, especially when they
heard that, after a week in Venice, we were going into Dalmatia.
"Why, I'm going down to Ragusa to paint," said he. "I've been before, but
this time I take my sister Beatrice. She paints too. We go by the Austrian
Lloyd to-morrow. Perhaps we see you there?"
"Have you ever been down as far as Cattaro?" asked Aunt Kathryn, from
whose tongue the names of Dalmatian towns fall trippingly, since she

"acquired" a castle and a title there.
"Oh, yes, and to Montenegro," replied the artist.
"And do you remember the houses of the neighbourhood?" went on Aunt
Kathryn.
"It is already but two years I was there, so a house would have to be
young for me not to remember," replied the young man, unconscious of the
funny little twist of his English.
"I am thinking of a very old house; Slosh—er—the Castle of Hrvoya.
Have you seen it?"
"Ah, that old ruin!" exclaimed the artist. "I seen it, yes. But there is not
more much Schloss Hrvoya to see, only the rock for it to stand."
Poor Aunt Kathryn! I was sorry for her. But she bore the blow well, and,
after all, it's the title, not the castle for which she cares most—that, and the
right to smear everything with crowns.
"Perhaps I'll ask you to paint Hrvoya for me some day," she said. But
afterwards, when we had bidden the handsome brother and sister au revoir,
she remarked that she was afraid Mr. Bari hadn't an artistic eye.
The good-byes said, we swept through the picturesque town to make up
for lost time, and presently encountered a little electric tram running
seaward on a causeway. We followed over a grass-grown road, and
suddenly found Venice again, so near that we could actually distinguish one
building from another. Beyond a broad stretch of water the dream city
floated on the sea.
"Look; I did this for you, so that you would go into Venice in a way
worthy of yourself," the Prince murmured in my ear, when the car had
stopped, joining his which was waiting. He waved his hand towards a
wonderful gondola, with a gesture such as Aladdin's Genie might have used
to indicate the magic palace. The glossy black coat of the swan-like thing
brought out the full value of the rich gold ornaments. A long piece of
drapery trailed into the water behind, and two gondoliers, like bronze

statues dressed in dark blue, crimson, and white, stood up tall and erect
against a background of golden sea and sky.
They helped us in, hat in hand; and not the Chauffeulier's absence nor the
Prince's presence could spoil for me the experience that followed.
Sunk deep in springy cushions, I half sat, half lay, while the bronze
statues swayed against the gold, softly plying their long oars, and wafting
me—me—to Venice.
I felt as if I were moving from the wings of a vast theatre onto the stage
to play a heroine's part. Evening bells, chanting a paen to the sunset, floated
across the wide water faint as spirit-chimes, and they were the leitmotif for
my entrance.
"What a shame to be in motoring things!" I said to Beechy. "Women
should have special gondola dresses; I see that already—a different one
each day. I should like to have a deep crimson gown and a pale green one—
lilac too, perhaps, and sunrise-pink, all made picturesquely, not in any stiff
modern way."
"The costume of your Sisterhood would be pretty in a gondola," Beechy
answered. And again that coldness fell upon me which I always feel at a
reminder, intentional or unintentional, of the future. But the chill was gone
in a moment—lost in the luminous air, which had a strange brilliancy, as if
reflected from a stupendous mirror. I had never seen anything even
remotely resembling it before. It was as though we were living inside a
great opal, like flies in amber. And it seemed that in a world so wonderful
everything one did, or looked, or thought, ought to be wonderful too, lest it
should be out of tune with all surrounding beauty.
Sea and sky were of one colour, except that the sea appeared to be on fire
underneath its glassy surface. The violet sky was strewn with blown rose-
petals and golden feathers; the tiny waves were of violet ruffled with rose
and gold, and spattered with jewelled sparks which might be flashes from a
Doge's vanished ring.
In the distance, sails of big ships were beaten into gold leaf by the
sinking sun; and nearer, there were other sails bright as flowers—a sea

picture-gallery of Madonnas, of arrow-wounded hearts, of martyred saints,
or bright-robed earthly ladies.
We were rowing straight into the sunset, straight into fairy-land, and I
knew it; but—what would happen when the rose-and-golden glory had
swallowed us up?
The sparkle of the water and air got into my blood, and I felt that it must
be sparkling too, like champagne. I was more alive than I had ever been
when I was on earth; for of course this was not earth—this Venice to which
I was going.
No other road but this water-road could have consoled me for the thought
that there would be no more motoring for a week. And clearly it was a road
of which it was necessary for the gondoliers to know every oar-length; for it
was defined by stakes, standing up out of the lagoon singly, or gathered into
clusters like giant bunches of asparagus.
Turning my back to the arched railway bridge, which accompanied us too
far, I looked only at sky and water, and at Venice rising from the sea.
The tide was running out, the Prince said (among other chatterings, while
I wished everybody woven in a magic spell of silence) and the gondola
made swift progress, rocking lightly like a shell, over the bright ripples of
the lagoon.
The nearer we drew to Venice the more like a vision of enchantment did
the city seem. Not a sound came to us, for the music of the bells had died.
All was still as in a dream—for in dreams, does one ever hear a sound? I
think I never have. And now the gold had faded from the clouds, leaving
them pink and violet, transparent as gauze, through which the rising moon
sifted silver dust. How could the others talk? I did not understand.
Aunt Kathryn was saying, "If I hire a gondolier, I want to get a singer."
As if he were a sewing-machine, or a canary-bird! And Beechy was
complaining that she felt "very funny;" she believed the motion of the
gondola was making her seasick, just as she used to be in her cradle, when
she was too young to protest except by a howl.

It was a relief to my feelings when we turned out of the wide lagoon into
a canal, for then they did at least speak of the scene around them, asking
questions about the tall palaces that walled us in; who lived here; who lived
there; what was the name or history of that?
The odour of seaweed was more pungent, and there was a smell of water
mingling with it too; something like fresh cucumbers, and the roots of
flowers when they have just been pulled out of the earth. I could not have
believed that water could have such clearness and at the same time hold so
many colours, as the water in this, my first canal of Venice. It was like a
greenish mirror, full of lights, and wavering reflected tints from the
crumbling palaces whose old bricks, mellow pink, gold, and purple, showed
like veins through the skin of peeling stucco. Down underneath the shining
mirror, one could see the old marble steps, leading up to the shut mystery of
water gates. There were shimmering gleams of pearly white and ivory
yellow, under beardy trails of moss old as the marble out of which it grew.
And over high walls, delicate branches of acacia and tamarisk beckoned us,
above low-hung drapery of wistaria, that dropped purple tassels to the
lapping water's edge.
So we wound through one narrow, palace-walled Rio after another, until
Venice began to seem like a jewelled net, with its carved precious stones
intricately strung on threads of silver; and then suddenly, to my surprise, we
burst into a great canal.
I saw a bridge, which I knew from many pictures must be the Rialto, but
there was no disappointment, no flatness in the impression of having seen
this all before, for not the greatest genius who ever lived could paint Venice
at her every day best. Palace after palace; and by-and-by a church with a
front carved in ivory by the growing moonlight, thrown up against a
background of rose.
"Palladio, it must be!" I cried.
"Yes; it's San Georgio Maggiore, Terry Barrymore's favourite church in
Venice," said Sir Ralph, who had been almost as silent as I. "And here we
are at the Hotel Britannia."

"Why, it has a garden!" exclaimed Aunt Kathryn. "I never thought of a
garden in Venice."
"There are several of the loveliest in Italy," replied Sir Ralph. "But the
Britannia's the only hotel that has one."
"My friend's palazzo has a courtyard garden with a wonderful old marble
well-head, and beautiful statues," said the Prince. "He and his wife are
coming to call on you to-morrow, and you will have the opportunity of
thanking them for their gondola. Also, they will probably invite you to
leave the hotel, and visit them during the rest of your stay, as they are very
hospitable."
"I'll wager you won't want to leave the Britannia, once you are settled
there," said Sir Ralph quickly. "It's the most comfortable hotel in Venice,
and Terry and I have wired for rooms with balconies overlooking the Grand
Canal, and the garden. There isn't a palace going that I would forsake the
Britannia for."
By this time the gondola had slipped between some tall red posts, and
brought us to the steps of the hotel. I was glad that they were marble steps
and that the house had once been a palace, otherwise I should not have felt I
was making the most of Venice.
If I live to be a hundred (one of the Sisters is close on eighty) I shall
never forget that first night in the City of the Sea
.
It was good to see Mr. Barrymore back again for dinner in the big red and
gold, brightly frescoed dining-room; and it was he who suggested that we
should have coffee in the garden, at a table on a balcony built over the
water, and then go out in gondolas.
We hired three; and as there are only two absolutely delightful seats in a
gondola, I was trembling lest the Prince should fall to my unlucky lot, when
Aunt Kathryn called to him, "Oh, do sit with me, please. I want to ask about
your friends who are coming to see us." So of course he went to her, and Sir
Ralph jumped in with Beechy; therefore the Chauffeulier was obliged to be
nice to me, whether he liked or not. We all kept close together, and soon the

three gondolas, following many others, grouped round a lighted music-
barge like a pyramid of illuminated fruit floating on the canal.
Either the voices were sweet, or they had the effect of being sweet in the
moonlight on the water; but the airs they sang got strangely tangled with the
songs in other barges, so that I longed to unwind one skein of tunes from
another, and wasn't sorry to steal away into the silence at last
.
We were not the only ones who flitted. The black forms of gondolas
moved soundlessly hither and thither on the surface of the dark lagoon, their
single lights like stars in the blue darkness.
Far away twinkled the lamps of the Lido, where Byron and Shelley used
to ride on the lonely sands. Near-by, on the Piazzetta where the twin
columns towered against the silver sky, white bunches of lights glimmered
like magic night-blooming flowers, with bright roots trailing deep down
into the river.
We talked of the countless great ones of the world who had lived and
died in Venice, and loved it well; of Byron, who slept in Marino Faliero's
dreadful cell before he wrote his tragedy; of Browning, whose funeral had
passed in solemn state of gondolas down the Grand Canal; of Wagner, who
found inspiration in this sea and sky, and died looking upon them from his
window in the Palazzo Vendramin. But through our talk I could hear Aunt
Kathryn in her gondola close by, saying how like the Doge's palace was to a
big bird-cage she once had; and the Prince was continually turning his head
to see if we were near, which was disturbing. We had nothing to say that all
the world might not have heard, yet instinctively we spoke almost in
whispers, the Chauffeulier and I, not to miss a gurgle of the water nor the
dip of an oar, which in the soft darkness made the light flutter of a bird
bathing.
I remembered suddenly how Sir Ralph had said one day, "You'll like
Terry in Venice." I did like Terry in Venice; and I liked him better than ever
at the moment of our return to the hotel, for there began a little adventure of
which he became the hero.

As I stepped out of the gondola there was a flash and a splash. "Oh my
gold bag!" I exclaimed. "Your present, Aunt Kathryn. It's in the canal; I
shall never see it again."
"Yes, you will," said Mr. Barrymore. "I—"
"If there was much money in it, you had better have a professional diver
come early to-morrow morning from the Arsenal," the Prince broke in.
"I know an amateur diver who will get back the bag to-night—now,
within the next half-hour I hope," went on the Chauffeulier.
"Indeed? Where do you propose to find him at this time?" asked the
Prince.
"I shall find him inside the hotel, and have him out here, ready for work
in ten minutes," said Mr. Barrymore.
"What fun!" exclaimed Beechy. "We'll wait here in the moonlight and see
him dive. It will be lovely."
Mr. Barrymore was gone before she finished.
It was nearly eleven o'clock. The music-barges had gone; the hotel
garden was deserted, and scarcely a moving star of light glided over the
canal. Our three gondolas, drawn up like carriages at the marble steps of the
Britannia, where the water lapped and gurgled, awaited the great event. The
Prince pooh-poohed the idea that Mr. Barrymore could find a diver, or that,
if he did, the bag could be retrieved in such an amateurish way. But I had
learned that when our Chauffeulier said a thing could be done, it would be
done, and I confidently expected to see him returning accompanied by some
obviously aquatic creature.
What I did see however, was a great surprise. Something moved in the
garden, under the curtain of creepers that draped the nearest overhanging
balcony. Then a tall, marble statue, "come alive," vaulted over the iron
railing and dropped into the lagoon.
It didn't seem at all strange that a marble statue should "come alive" in
Venice; but what did seem odd was that it should exactly resemble Mr.
Barrymore, feature for feature, inch for inch.

"Hullo, Terry, I didn't know you meant to do that!" exclaimed Sir Ralph.
"You are a lightning change artist."
For it was the Chauffeulier, in a bathing suit which he must have
hurriedly borrowed from one of the landlord's tall young sons, and he was
swimming by the side of my gondola.
"I meant nothing else," laughed the statue in the water, the moon shining
into his eyes and on his noble white throat as he swam. "Now, Miss Destrey,
show me exactly how you stood when you dropped your bag, and I think I
can promise that you shall have it again in a few minutes."
"If I'd dreamed of this I wouldn't have let you do it," I said.
"Why not? I'm awfully happy, and the water feels like warm silk. Is this
where you dropped it? Look out for a little splash, please. I'm going down."
With that he disappeared under the canal, and stayed down so long that I
began to be frightened. It seemed impossible that any human being could
hold his breath for so many minutes; but just as my anxiety reached boiling
point, up he came, dripping, laughing, his short hair in wet rings on his
forehead, and in his hand, triumphantly held up, the gold bag.
"I knew where to grope for it, and I felt it almost the first thing," he said.
"Please forgive my wet fingers."
"Why, there's something red on the gold. It's blood!" I stammered,
forgetting to thank him.
"Is there? What a bore! But it's nothing. I grazed the skin of my hands a
little, grubbing about among the stones down there, that's all."
"It's a great deal," I said. "I can't bear to think you've been hurt for me."
"Why, I don't even feel it," said the Chauffeulier. "It's the bag that suffers.
But you can have it washed."
Yes, I could have it washed. Yet, somehow, it would seem almost
sacrilegious. I made up my mind without saying a word, that I would not
have the bag washed. I would keep it exactly as it was, put sacredly away in
some box, in memory of this night.

XXI

A CHAPTER OF STRANGE SPELLS

"Never since Anne Boleyn has a woman so lost her head over a man with
a title as Mamma over Prince Dalmar-Kalm," said Beechy, after our week at
Venice was half spent. And I wished that, in fair exchange, he would lose
his over Aunt Kathryn instead of wasting time on me, and casting his
shadow on beautiful days.
Roses and lilies appeared on my writing-desk; they were from him.
Specimens of Venetian sweets (crystallized fruits stuck on sticks, like fat
martyrs) adorned large platters on the table by the window—gifts from the
Prince. If I admired the little gargoylish sea-horses, or the foolish shell
ornaments at the Lido, I was sure to find some when I came home. And the
man hinted in whispers that the attentions of the Comte and Contessa were
for me.
All this was annoying though he put it on the grounds of friendship; and I
didn't like the Corraminis, although their influence opened doors that would
otherwise have been closed. Through them we saw the Comte de Bardi's
wonderful Japanese collection of the Palazzo Vendramin, the finest in the
world; through them we had glimpses of the treasures in more than one old
palace; they gave us a picnic dinner in their lighted gondola, on the lagoon,
with many elaborate courses cooked in chafing-dishes, which the
gondoliers served. They took us to Chioggia on their steam yacht which—it
seemed—they must let half the year to afford the use of it the other half.
The "County" (as Aunt Kathryn pronounces him) must have been
handsome before his good looks were ravaged by smallpox. As it is, Beechy
compares his dark face to a "plum cake, from which somebody has picked
out all the plums;" and the black eyes, deep set in this scarred mask, gaze
out of it with sinister effect. Yet his manner is perfect, witty, and gracious.
He speaks English fluently, and might be of any age between thirty-five and
fifty. As for the Contessa, she has the profile of a Boadicea (with which I
could never feel thoroughly at home if it were mine) and the walk of a
bewitched table, so stout she is, and so square. Her principal efforts at
conversation with me were in praise of Prince Dalmar-Kalm, so I scarcely

appreciated them. Indeed, the Corraminis repelled me, and I was glad to
spare all their distinguished society to Aunt Kathryn.
Each day in Venice (not counting the hours spent with them and the
Prince) was more wonderful, it seemed, than the day before.
First among my pictures was San Marco, which I went out to see alone
early in the morning, but met Mr. Barrymore as I inquired my way. I could
have wished for that, though I wouldn't have dreamed of asking him to take
me. As we went through the narrow streets of charming shops, we played at
not thinking of what was to come. Then, Mr. Barrymore said suddenly,
"Now you may look." So I did look, and there it was, the wonder of
wonders, more like a stupendous crown of jewels than a church. Like a
queen's diadem, it gleamed in the grey-white Piazza, under the burning
azure dome of the sky.
"Oh, we've found the key of the rainbow, and come close to it!" I cried.
"What a marvel! Can human beings really have made it, or did it make
itself as gems form in the rocks, and coral under the sea?"
"The cornice does look as if it were the spray of the sea, tossing up
precious stones from buried treasures beneath the waves," he answered.
"But you're right. We've got the key of the rainbow, and we can go in."
I walked beside him, awe-struck, as if I were passing under a spell. There
could be no other building so beautiful in the world, and it was harder than
ever to realize that man had created it. The golden mosaic of the domed
roof, arching above the purple-brown of the alabaster walls, was like
sunrise boiling over the massed clouds of a dark horizon. Light seemed
generated by the glitter of that mosaic; and the small white windows of the
dome gained such luminous blues and pale gold glints, from sky without
and opal gleams within, that they were changed to stars. The pavement was
opaline, too, with a thousand elusive tints and jewelled colours, waving like
the sea. It was all I could do not to touch Mr. Barrymore's arm or hand for
sympathy.
We didn't speak as we passed out. I was almost glad when the spell was
broken by the striking of the great, blue clock opposite San Marco, and the

slow procession of the life-size mechanical figures which only open their
secret door on fête days, such as this chanced to be.
Watching the stiff saints go through their genuflexions put me in a good
mood for an introduction to the pigeons, which I longed to have for friends
—strange little stately ruffling things, almost as mechanical in their strut as
the figures of the clock; so metallic, too, in their lustre, that I could have
believed them made of painted iron.
Some wore short grey Eton jackets, with white blouses showing behind;
these were the ladies, and their faces were as different as possible from
those of their lovers. So were the dainty little coral feet, for alas! the
masculine shoes were the pinker and prettier; and the males, even the baby
ones, were absurdly like English judges in wigs and gowns.
It was charming to watch the developments of pigeon love-stories on that
blue-and-gold day, which was my first in the Grand Piazza of San Marco.
How the lady would patter away, and pretend she didn't know that a rising
young judge had his eye upon her! But she would pause and feign to
examine a grain of corn, which I or some one else had thrown, just long
enough to give him a chance of preening his feathers before her, spreading
out his tail, and generally cataloguing his perfections. She would pretend
that this demonstration had no effect upon her heart, that she'd seen a dozen
pigeons within an hour handsomer than he; but the instant a rival belle
chanced (only it wasn't chance really) to hop that way and offer outrageous
inducements to flirtation, she decided that, after all, he was worth having—
and, alas! sometimes decided too late.
That same afternoon Mr. Barrymore took me to the little church of San
Giorgio degli Schiavoni to see the exquisite Carpaccios, because he was of
opinion that Aunt Kathryn and Beechy would prefer to go shopping. Yet,
after all, who should appear there but Beechy and Sir Ralph!
Beechy thought the dragon a delightful beast, with a remarkable eye for
the picturesque, judging from the way in which he had arranged the remains
of his victims; and she was sorry for him, dragged into the market-place, so
pitifully shrunken, beaten, and mortified was he. She wanted to live in all
the mediæval castles of the picture-backgrounds, and was of opinion that
the basilisk's real intentions had been misunderstood by the general public