Mrs. Marshall-Smith stirred herself with the effect of a splendid ship going into action with all flags flying.  “Sylvia dear,” she said, “this rain tonight makes me think of a new plan.  It will very likely rain for a week or more now.  Paris is abominable in the rain.  What do you say to a change?  Madeleine Perth was telling me this afternoon that the White Star people are running a few ships from Portsmouth by way of Cherbourg around by Gibraltar, through the Mediterranean to Naples.  That’s one trip your rolling-stone of an aunt has never taken, and I’d rather like to add it to my collection.  We could be in Naples in four days from Cherbourg and spend a month in Italy, going north as the heat arrived.  Felix—­why don’t you come along?  You’ve been wanting to see the new low reliefs in the Terme, in Rome?”

Sylvia’s heart, like all young hearts, was dazzled almost to blinking by the radiance shed from the magic word Italy.  She turned, looking very much taken aback and bewildered, but with light in her eyes, color in her face.

Morrison burst out:  “Oh, a dream realized!  Something to live on all one’s days, the pines of the Borghese—­the cypresses of the Villa Medici—­roses cascading over the walls in Rome, the view across the Campagna from the terraces at Rocca di Papa—­”

Sylvia thought rapidly to herself:  “Austin said he did not want me to answer at once.  He said he wanted me to take time—­to take time!  I can decide better, make more sense out of everything, if I—­after I have thought more, have taken more time.  No, I am not turning my back on him.  Only I must have more time to think—­”

Aloud she said, after a moment’s silence, “Oh, nothing could be lovelier!”

She lay in her warm, clean white bed that night, sleeping the sound sleep of the healthy young animal which has been wet and cold and hungry, and is now dry and warmed and fed.

Outside, across the city, on his bronze pedestal, the tortured Thinker, loyal to his destiny, still strove terribly against the limitations of his ape-like forehead.

BOOK IV;

THE STRAIT PATH

CHAPTER XL

A CALL FROM HOME

It was quite dark when they arrived in the harbor at Naples; and they were too late to go through the necessary formalities of harbor entering.  In company with several other in-and outward-bound steamers, the Carnatic lay to for the night.  Some one pointed out a big liner which would sail for New York the next morning, lying like a huge, gaily lighted island, the blare of her band floating over the still water.

Sylvia slept little that night, missing the rolling swing of the ship, and feeling breathless in the stifling immobility of the cabin.  She tossed about restlessly, dozing off at intervals and waking with a start to get up on her knees and look out through the port-hole at the lights of Naples blazing steadily in their semicircle.  She tried to think several times, about her relations to Felix, to Austin—­but nothing came to her mind except a series of scenes in which they had figured, scenes quite disconnected, which brought no enlightenment to her.