"Natalie will give us something in the way of an early dinner," said Mr.
Lind, "and then you can make her play the zither for you."

Well, there was not much hesitation about his accepting. That
drawing-room, with its rose-and-green-shaded candles, was not as other
drawing-rooms in the evening. In that room you could hear the fountains
plashing in the Villa Reale, and the Capri fishermen singing afar, and
the cattle-bells chiming on the Campagna, and the gondolas sending their
soft chorus across the lagoon. When Brand left his bag in the cloak-room
at the station he gave the porter half a crown for carrying thither,
which was unnecessary. Nor was there any hopeless apathy on his face as
he drove away with these two friends through the darkening afternoon,
in the little hired brougham. When they arrived in Curzon Street, he was
even good enough to assist the timid little Anneli to descend from the
box; but this was in order that he might slip a tip into the hand of the
coachman. The coachman scarcely said "Thank you." It was not until
afterward that he discovered he had put half a sovereign into his
breeches-pocket as if it were an ordinary sixpence.

Natalie Lind came down to dinner in a dress of black velvet, with a
mob-cap of rose-red silk. Round her neck she wore a band of Venetian
silver-work, from the centre of which was suspended the little
old-fashioned locket she had received in Hyde Park. George Brand
remembered the story, and perhaps was a trifle surprised that she should
wear so conspicuously the gift of a stranger.

She was very friendly, and very cheerful. She did not seem at all
fatigued with her travelling; on the contrary, it was probably the
sea-air and the sunlight that had lent to her cheek a faint flush of