“Well, that’s quite a spell.  Must like it here.”  Mary Gowd said nothing.  “Can’t say I’m crazy about it—­that is, as a place to live.  I said to Mother last night:  ‘Little old Batavia’s good enough for Henry D.’  Of course it’s a grand education, travelling, especially for Tweetie.  Funny, I always thought the fruit in Italy was regular hothouse stuff—­thought the streets would just be lined with trees all hung with big, luscious oranges.  But, Lord!  Here we are at the best hotel in Rome, and the fruit is worse than the stuff the pushcart men at home feed to their families—­little wizened bananas and oranges.  Still, it’s grand here in Rome for Tweetie.  I can’t stay long—­just ran away from business to bring ’em over; but I’d like Tweetie to stay in Italy until she learns the lingo.  Sings, too—­Tweetie does; and she and Ma think they’ll have her voice cultivated over here.  They’ll stay here quite a while, I guess.”

“Then you will not be here with them?” asked Mary Gowd.

“Me?  No.”

They sat silent for a moment.

“I suppose you’re crazy about Rome,” said Henry Gregg again.  “There’s a lot of culture here, and history, and all that; and—­”

“I hate Rome!” said Mary Gowd.

Henry Gregg stared at her in bewilderment.

“Then why in Sam Hill don’t you go back to England?”

“I’m thirty-seven years old.  That’s one reason why.  And I look older.  Oh, yes, I do.  Thanks just the same.  There are too many women in England already—­too many half-starving shabby genteel.  I earn enough to live on here—­that is, I call it living.  You couldn’t.  In the bad season, when there are no tourists, I live on a lire a day, including my rent.”

Henry Gregg stood up.

“My land!  Why don’t you come to America?” He waved his arms.  “America!”

Mary Gowd’s brick-red cheeks grew redder.

“America!” she echoed.  “When I see American tourists here throwing pennies in the Fountain of Trevi, so that they’ll come back to Rome, I want to scream.  By the time I save enough money to go to America I’ll be an old woman and it will be too late.  And if I did contrive to scrape together enough for my passage over I couldn’t go to the United States in these clothes.  I’ve seen thousands of American women here.  If they look like that when they’re just travelling about, what do they wear at home!”

“Clothes?” inquired Henry Gregg, mystified.  “What’s wrong with your clothes?”

“Everything!  I’ve seen them look at my suit, which hunches in the back and strains across the front, and is shiny at the seams.  And my gloves!  And my hat!  Well, even though I am English I know how frightful my hat is.”

“You’re a smart woman,” said Henry D. Gregg.

“Not smart enough,” retorted Mary Gowd, “or I shouldn’t be here.”

The two stood up as Tweetie came toward them from the lift.  Tweetie pouted again at sight of Mary Gowd, but the pout cleared as Blue Cape, his arrangements completed, stood in the doorway, splendid hat in hand.