“But we don’t want to bother you,” Miss Carlisle finished breathlessly.
“Bother?” Arthur waved his hand in derision at the idea. “I have absolutely nothing to do.” He felt a slight twinge of conscience as he glanced at the untouched pile on his desk; then his eye rested on the back of Miss Moulton, who was still inspecting the portrait. “Absolutely nothing,” he repeated firmly. “I am only too delighted to be able to be of service to you. There is a luncheon today at the Guidi Palace — I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. Then, this afternoon—”
“Today is full, I’m afraid — for us.” Miss Moulton had turned to face them and was speaking in a coolly impersonal tone. “We are going to San Lorenzo, San Pietro and the Borghese. Really Mr. Churchill-Brown, there is no need to disturb you. But we are very grateful.”
Arthur glanced at Miss Carlisle. “But I thought — Mother told me—” then at the amusement depicted on Miss Moulton’s face he stopped short.
“I know,” said the elder lady. “But what can I do?” She glanced at her companion and then turned helplessly to Arthur. “She tells me to go somewhere — and I go, whether I want to or not. What can I do?”
“Nothing whatever,” the young man said gravely. “To tell the truth, I don’t think you should object. When you can be piloted by one who—” Miss Moulton was regarding him suspiciously — “whose tastes lead to the Borghese—” Arthur grinned — “you should be more than satisfied. But I shall see you again?” He glanced appealingly at Miss Moulton who had started to leave. She turned at the door and looked at him for a moment over her shoulder.
“We are to be in Rome only a week,” she said, hesitating. “Perhaps — we are staying at the Larossa.” With a nod and a smile she tripped out, followed by Miss Carlisle, and through a window Arthur saw them enter a public brougham and drive away.
Now, there was nothing unusual in that, was there? Is there any more common sight in Europe than a pair of trippers calling at a legation? And do not all old maids have a companion? Are not these companions — especially in stories — always pretty? And yet—
Thirty minutes later Arthur muttered an impatient oath, sprang up from his chair and began walking up and down the room. “I’m a jolly idiot,” he said firmly. “What do I care whether she snubbed me or not? Yet she told me her hotel — Well, what if she did? Who is she, anyway? A companion! I wonder—” he hesitated. “I may call on Miss Carlisle. She’s a very dear lady. Very. Besides, it would please Mother. Mother evidently liked her. Moulton, eh? May be a cousin. May be a niece. I wonder if she—” he stopped short and stood for some minutes regarding the corner of his desk thoughtfully, then rang a bell, and when a servant appeared, ordered a carriage. Five minutes later he might have been overheard directing the driver, “To the Borghese.”
If Lady Churchill-Brown, who was showing her daughter in as many places as possible during the short London season, had by some supernatural agency been enable to survey the movements of her son for the following two weeks, she would have been agreeably surprised and immensely pleased at the evident success of her plan to cure him of certain follies. Her treatment had consisted of an appointment to the diplomatic service. As though a young man who had been willing to misbehave in London would of necessity become an anchorite in Rome! Arthur had acted just as he might have been expected to act; in a very youthful and, maternally speaking, a thoroughly disgraceful manner.
Of this fact Lady Churchill-Brown was not entirely unaware; therefore would she have been highly gratified if she had observed her son’s actions for the two weeks following his meeting with Miss Carlisle — and her companion. He developed an incredible longing for moonlight views of the Colosseum; he visited churches and villas and galleries and ruins, gladly betraying his ignorance and expressing humble gratitude for the instruction and enlightenment kindly furnished by Miss Moulton; he attended Miss Carlisle with unexampled assiduity and devotion; he sat in corners at afternoon teas where they talked in hushed tones of Gabriele d’Annunzio, or talked of him not at all; and for fourteen whole days, never once did he cross the bridge to Udini’s! This last was in itself a miracle.
Behold him then, on the morning following the expiration of the two weeks, seated in a quiet and tastefully furnished private parlor at the Hotel Larossa. In the centre of the room was a pile of trunks and bags; Arthur was sitting on one of the former. In a chair over by a window was Miss Carlisle, wearing a dark blue traveling suit. She was sitting bolt upright, with her hands resting on the arms of her chair, evidently much disturbed by the startling information just imparted to her by Arthur.
“It seems to me,” she said, hesitating, “that you had better speak to Miss Moulton.”
There was a slight pause, while the young man twirled his hat around in his hands nervously and gazed at the door. Then he looked up at Miss Carlisle with an air of determination. “It’s this way,” he said. “I may as well be frank with you. I suppose I’ll ask her anyway, but I want to talk with you about it first. The fact is, I can’t afford it; though as far as I’m concerned it doesn’t make the slightest difference. It’s only for her. What I want to know is, who is she, and how long have you known her, and all that sort of thing.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then why don’t you tell her so?”
Arthur was silent.
“Why don’t you tell her?” Miss Carlisle repeated grimly.
“I... I’m afraid to,” the young man stammered.
“Pooh!” the lady snorted contemptuously. “I can tell you one thing; you won’t get any satisfaction out of me. Of course you’re afraid! You’re afraid she’s poor. You’re afraid her great-grandfather was as disrespectable as your own. And more than everything else, you’re afraid of your mother!”
“I am not!” the young man declared hotly, his face very red.
“Yes you are!” Miss Carlisle almost shouted, rising and waving her arms excitedly. “Don’t contradict me! And I can hardly blame you; She’s worth a dozen of your kind. She’s a thousand times too good for you. If she’d only had sense enough not to fall in love with you!”
“What!” cried Arthur, turning pale.
Miss Carlisle sank back into her chair. “Now what have I done?” she said helplessly. “Anyway, it was a lie. I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“Oh!” said Arthur, doubtfully.
Then the door opened to admit Miss Moulton herself.
Arthur arose awkwardly, and there ensued the uncomfortable silence which always greets the entrance of one who has been the subject of conversation. The young lady looked from Arthur to Miss Carlisle and back again, as if to inquire the cause of their very evident embarrassment. Then the young man pulled two slips of blue paper from his pocket and advanced toward Miss Moulton with an attempt at naturalness that fell quite flat.
“Here are your tickets,” said he, smiling foolishly. Miss Carlisle arose, muttered something unintelligible, and disappeared in the direction of her bedroom.
“What’s the matter?” asked Miss Moulton coolly.
“Nothing,” said Arthur, visibly ill at ease. “Nothing whatever. The fact is, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Well?”
“Well — er — I—” he hesitated stammering.
“Go on,” Miss Moulton said encouragingly.
Arthur gulped hard. “Haven’t you noticed anything funny about me lately?” he demanded desperately.