Mr. and Mrs. Henry D. Gregg had left their comfortable home in Batavia, Illinois, with its sleeping porch, veranda and lawn, and seven-passenger car; with its two glistening bathrooms, and its Oriental rugs, and its laundry in the basement, and its Sunday fried chicken and ice cream, because they felt that Miss Eleanora Gregg ought to have the benefit of foreign travel.  Miss Eleanora Gregg thought so too:  in fact, she had thought so first.

Her name was Eleanora, but her parents called her Tweetie, which really did not sound so bad as it might if Tweetie had been one whit less pretty.  Tweetie was so amazingly, Americanly pretty that she could have triumphed over a pet name twice as absurd.

The Greggs came to Rome, as has been stated, at two P.M.  Wednesday.  By two P.M.  Thursday Tweetie had bought a pair of long, dangling earrings, a costume with a Roman striped collar and sash, and had learned to loll back in her cab in imitation of the dashing, black-eyed, sallow women she had seen driving on the Pincio.  By Thursday evening she was teasing Papa Gregg for a spray of white aigrets, such as those same languorous ladies wore in feathery mists atop their hats.

“But, Tweet,” argued Papa Gregg, “what’s the use?  You can’t take them back with you.  Custom-house regulations forbid it.”

The rather faded but smartly dressed Mrs. Gregg asserted herself: 

“They’re barbarous!  We had moving pictures at the club showing how they’re torn from the mother birds.  No daughter of mine—­”

“I don’t care!” retorted Tweetie.  “They’re perfectly stunning; and I’m going to have them.”

And she had them—­not that the aigret incident is important; but it may serve to place the Greggs in their respective niches.

At eleven o’clock Friday morning Mary Gowd called at the Gregg’s hotel, according to appointment.  In far-away Batavia, Illinois, Mrs. Gregg had heard of Mary Gowd.  And Mary Gowd, with her knowledge of everything Roman—­from the Forum to the best place at which to buy pearls—­was to be the staff on which the Greggs were to lean.

“My husband,” said Mrs. Gregg; “my daughter Twee—­er—­Eleanora.  We’ve heard such wonderful things of you from my dear friend Mrs. Melville Peters, of Batavia.”

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Mary Gowd.  “A most charming person, Mrs. Peters.”

“After she came home from Europe she read the most wonderful paper on Rome before the Women’s West End Culture Club, of Batavia.  We’re affiliated with the National Federation of Women’s Clubs, as you probably know; and—­”

“Now, Mother,” interrupted Henry Gregg, “the lady can’t be interested in your club.”

“Oh, but I am!” exclaimed Mary Gowd very vivaciously.  “Enormously!”

Henry Gregg eyed her through his cigar smoke with suddenly narrowed lids.

“M-m-m!  Well, let’s get to the point anyway.  I know Tweetie here is dying to see St. Peter’s, and all that.”