might have the sister to study in a living model, Edith," laughed Mae,
arising.

Edith and Albert were both struck by Mae's dramatic force, and they
talked of her as they drove to the Vatican. "I wish I understood her
better," said Edith. "I cannot feel as if travel were doing her good.
She is changing so; she was always odd, but then she was always happy.
Now she has her moods, and there is a look in her eye I am afraid of. It
is almost savage. You would think the beauty in Rome would delight her
nature, for she craves beauty and poetry in everything. I don't believe
the theatre is good for her. Albert, suppose we give up our tickets for
Thursday night."

"But you want particularly to see that play, Edith."

"I can easily give it up for Mae's sake. It would be cruel to go without
her, and I think excitement is bad for her."

"You are very generous, Edith, and right, too, I dare say. I wish my
little sister could see pleasure and duty through your steadier, clearer
eyes."

Then the steady, clear eyes dropped suddenly, and the two forgot all
about Mae, and rolled contentedly off, behind the limping Italian
horse. And the red-cheeked vetturino with the flower in his button-hole,
whistled a love-song, and thought of his Piametta, I suppose.

Meantime, Mae, left to herself, grew penitent and reckless by turns,
blushed alternately with shame and with quick pulse-beats, as she
remembered Norman Mann's face, or the officer's smile. She wondered