Mae had been looking for Bero all that afternoon. She felt sure he would
be there, and very soon she saw him among a crowd of officers sauntering
slowly down the Corso. He looked up at the window opposite. The veiled
lady leaned slightly forward and bowed and waved her white hand. Bero
bowed. So did the other officers.

Norman Mann and Eric excused themselves long enough to dash over to
welcome their friends and then stayed on for a little chat. These young
women were quite gorgeous in opera cloaks and tiny, nearly invisible,
American flags tucked through their belts. They tossed confetti down on
every one's heads, and shouted--a little over-enthusiastically, but one
can pardon even gush if it is only genuine. That was the question in
this case.

The horse race came; and Mae went fairly wild. When it was over, every
body prepared to go home. King Pasquino had virtually abdicated in favor
of the Dinner Kings. Mae unclasped her tightly strained hands, clambered
down from a chair she had perched herself on, smiled a good-bye at the
veiled lady, and came away. She rode home quietly with a big bouquet of
exquisite blue violets in her hand. There was a rose on top and a fringe
of maiden's hair at the edge, and the bouquet was flung from Bero's own
hand up at the side window on the quiet Jesu e Maria, when everyone else
but Mae was out on the Corso balcony.

"It is dreadful to grow old," said Mae, breaking silence, as the
carriage clattered over the stony streets.

"My dear," expostulated Edith, "you surely don't call yourself old. What
do you mean?"