be quite out of her element. My master in Rome, Flammenti, had a way of
saying a thing was like the pope at a dancing-party, and I fancy
Ninitta at an afternoon tea would be hardly less out of place."

"But she must be very lonely," Edith said, stirring her coffee
meditatively. "She used to have a few Italians come to see her; people
she met that time she ran away, you remember, and we brought her home,
but they don't come now."

"Why not?"

Edith smiled and raised her eyebrows.

"A question of caste, I believe."

"Of caste?" echoed Helen. "What do you mean?"

"When her son was born," Edith responded, "she told them that the
_bambino_ was born a gentleman, and couldn't associate with them."

Helen laughed lightly; then her face clouded, and she sighed.

"Poor Ninitta!" she said. "There is something infinitely pitiful in her
devotion and faithfulness to her youthful love."

Edith's face assumed an expression of mingled perplexity and disquiet.
With eyes downcast she seemed for a moment to be seeking a phrase in
which properly to express some thought which troubled her. Then she
looked up quickly.