Bernard recognized them, and he gave a light laugh.

"You told me that the first time you ever saw me--in that quiet little
corner of an Italian town."

Mrs. Vivian gave a little faded, elderly blush.

"Don't speak of that," she murmured, glancing at the open window. "It
was a little accident of travel."

"I am dying to speak of it," said Bernard. "It was such a charming
accident for me! Tell me this, at least--have you kept my sketch?"

Mrs. Vivian colored more deeply and glanced at the window again.

"No," she just whispered.

Bernard looked out of the window too. Angela was leaning against the
railing of the balcony, in profile, just as she had stood while he
painted her, against the polished parapet at Siena. The young man's eyes
rested on her a moment, then, as he glanced back at her mother:

"Has she kept it?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Vivian, with decision.

The decision was excessive--it expressed the poor lady's distress at
having her veracity tested. "Dear little daughter of the Puritans--she
can't tell a fib!" Bernard exclaimed to himself. And with this