"That will mean another carriage."

"Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it
herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for
him."

They were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy
stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic,
trying to answer, or at all events to formulate the questions
rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and
there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did
the most extraordinary things. Murder, accusations of murder,
A lady clinging to one man and being rude to another--were these
the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank
beauty than met the eye--the power, perhaps, to evoke passions,
good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?

Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that
did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could
conjecture with admirable delicacy "where things might lead to,"
but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now
she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note
from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment
round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way
to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the
walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: "Whether
it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager who
forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave
Eleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any
case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only