people--the Porters--we knew very well. And they hadn't been three days in
London before one of the daughters developed meningitis, and was at the
point of death. And of course they could go nowhere and see nothing--and
poor Lucy Foster felt herself in the way. Then she was to have joined some
other people in Italy, and _they_ changed their plans. And at last I got a
letter from Mrs. Porter--in despair--asking me if I knew of anyone in Rome
who would take her in and chaperon her. And then--well, then you know the
rest.'

And the speaker nodded again, still more significantly, towards her nephew.

'No, not all,' said Mrs. Burgoyne, laughing. 'I remember he telegraphed.'

'Yes. He wouldn't even wait for me to write. No--"Of course we must have
the girl!" he said. "She can join us at the villa. And they'll want to
know, so I'll wire." And out he went. And then that evening I had to write
and ask her to stay as long as she wished--and--well, there it is!'

'And hence these tears,' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'What possessed him?'

'Well, I think it was conscience,' said the little spinster, plucking up
spirit. 'I know it was with me. There had been some Americans calling on
us that day--you remember--those charming Harvard people? And somehow
it recalled to us both what a fuss they had made with us--and how kind
everybody was. At least I suppose that was how Edward felt. I know I did.'

Manisty paused in his walk. For the first time his dark whimsical face was
crossed by an unwilling smile--slight but agreeable.

'It is the old story,' he said. 'Life would be tolerable but for one's