She was going up to her room when the lodge porter ran up the stairs after her with a letter. "For you, signorina."

It was from Edna.

"DEAR OLIVE"--she had written,--"I could not wait for trains so papa has hired a car, and we shall motor straight to Genoa and catch the boat there. I want to go home to America pretty badly.--Your loving friend,

"EDNA.

"_P.S._--I am still right down glad you told me.--E. M."

One of the servants came to Olive's room presently.

"La Signora Marchesa wishes to see you at once in her boudoir."

The Marchesa had come straight from the motor to her own room, her head was still swathed in a white veil, and she had not even taken off her heavy sable coat. She had switched on the light on her entrance, and now she was searching in the drawers of her bureau for her cheque-book.

"Ah, well, gold perhaps," she said after a while, impatiently, as she snapped open the chain purse that hung from her wrist. "Is that you, Miss Agar?"

Olive, seeing her counting out her money, like the queen in the nursery rhyme, had stopped short near the door. She paled a little as she understood this must be the sequel to what she had done, but she held her head high, and there was a light of defiance in the blue eyes.

"I have to speak to you very seriously."

The Marchesa, a large woman, was slow and deliberate in all her movements. She took her place on a brocaded settee with the air of a statue of Juno choosing a pedestal, and began to draw off her gloves.

"I greatly regret that this should be necessary." She seemed prepared to clean Augean stables, and there was something judicial in her aspect too, but she did not look at Olive. "You know that I took you into my house on the recommendation of the music-teacher, Signora Giannini. It was foolish, I see that now. It has come to my knowledge that you had no right to enter here, no right to be with my daughter."

She paused. "You must understand perfectly what I mean," she said impressively.

"No, I do not understand," the girl said. "Will you explain, Marchesa?"

"Can you deny that you were involved in a most discreditable affair in Siena before you came here? That your intrigue--I hate to have to enter into the unsavoury details, Miss Agar, but you have forced me to it--that your intrigue with your cousin's _fiance_ drove her to suicide, and that you were obliged to leave the place in consequence?"

"It is not true."

"Ah, but your cousin killed herself?"

"Yes."

"Her lover was in the house at the time, and you were there too?"

"Yes."

"You were at the theatre the night before and everyone noticed that he paid you great attention?"

"He? Oh," cried Olive, "how horrible, and how clever!"

The hard grey eyes met hers for a moment.

The girl's pale face was flushed now with shame and anger. "So clever!

Will you congratulate the Prince for me, Marchesa?" she said very distinctly.

"You are impertinent. Of course, I cannot keep you. My daughter--"

The Marchesa saw her mistake as she made it and would have pa.s.sed on, but Olive was too quick for her. She smiled. "Your daughter! I do not think I can have harmed her."

"You can take your money; I have left it there for you on the bureau.

Please pack your boxes and be off as soon as possible."

"I am to leave to-night? It is dark already, and I have no friends in Florence."

The Marchesa shrugged her shoulders. "I can't help that," she said.

Olive went slowly out into the hall, and stood there hesitating at the head of the stairs. She scarcely knew what to do or where to turn, but she was determined not to stay longer than she could help under this roof. She went down to the porter's lodge in the paved middle court.

"Gigia!"

The old woman came hobbling out to greet her with a toothless smile.

"Ah, _bella signorina_, there are no more letters for you to-night.

Have you come to talk to me for a little?"

"I am going away," the girl answered hurriedly. "Will your husband come in to fetch my luggage soon? At eight o'clock?"

Gigia laid a skinny hand on Olive's arm, and her sharp old eyes blinked anxiously as she said, "Where are you going, _nina mia_?"

"I don't know."

"Not to the Prince?"

"Good heavens! No!"

"Ah, the _padrona_ is hard--and you are pretty. I thought it might be that, perhaps. Don Filippo is like his old wolf of a father, and young lambs should beware of him."

"Can you tell me of some quiet, decent rooms where I can go to night?"

"_Sicuro!_ My husband's brother keeps the Aquila Verde, and you can go there. Giovanni will give you his best room if he hears that you come from us, and he will not charge too much. I am sorry you are going, _cara_."

Olive squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Gigia. You are the only one I am sorry to say good-bye to. I shall not forget you."

The Marchese was coming down the stairs as Olive went up again. He smiled at her as he stood aside to let her pa.s.s. "You are late, are you not? I shall not tell tales but I hope for your sake that my wife won't see you."

"She won't see me again. I am going," she answered.

He would have detained her. "One moment," he said eagerly, but she was not listening. "I shall miss you."

After all she heard him. "Thank you," she said gravely.

A door was closed on the landing below, and the master of the house glanced at it apprehensively. He was not sure--