white wine and lighting a cigarette, as the beauty retired with the banker,
the courier and the poet, distributing peals of silvery satire.
At about the same instant the two priests in the corner rose;
the taller, a white-haired Italian, taking his leave. The shorter priest
turned and walked towards the banker's son, and the latter was astonished
to realize that though a Roman priest the man was an Englishman.
He vaguely remembered meeting him at the social crushes of some of
his Catholic friends. But the man spoke before his memories could
collect themselves.

"Mr Frank Harrogate, I think," he said. "I have had an introduction,
but I do not mean to presume on it. The odd thing I have to say
will come far better from a stranger. Mr Harrogate, I say one word and go:
take care of your sister in her great sorrow."

Even for Frank's truly fraternal indifference the radiance
and derision of his sister still seemed to sparkle and ring;
he could hear her laughter still from the garden of the hotel,
and he stared at his sombre adviser in puzzledom.

"Do you mean the brigands?" he asked; and then, remembering
a vague fear of his own, "or can you be thinking of Muscari?"

"One is never thinking of the real sorrow," said the strange priest.
"One can only be kind when it comes."

And he passed promptly from the room, leaving the other almost
with his mouth open.

A day or two afterwards a coach containing the company was