It was ten o’clock when the three returned from Tivoli and the Colosseum—­Mary Gowd silent and shabbier than ever from the dust of the road; Blue Cape smiling; Tweetie frankly pettish.  Pa and Ma Gregg were listening to the after-dinner concert in the foyer.

“Was it romantic—­the Colosseum, I mean—­by moonlight?” asked Ma Gregg, patting Tweetie’s cheek and trying not to look uncomfortable as Blue Cape kissed her hand.

“Romantic!” snapped Tweetie.  “It was as romantic as Main Street on Circus Day.  Hordes of people tramping about like buffaloes.  Simply swarming with tourists—­German ones.  One couldn’t find a single ruin to sit on.  Romantic!” She glared at the silent Mary Gowd.

There was a strange little glint in Mary Gowd’s eyes, and the grim line was there about the mouth again, grimmer than it had been in the morning.

“You will excuse me?” she said.  “I am very tired.  I will say good night.”

“And I,” announced Caldini.

Mary Gowd turned swiftly to look at him.

“You!” said Tweetie Gregg.

“I trust that I may have the very great happiness to see you in the morning,” went on Caldini in his careful English.  “I cannot permit Signora Gowd to return home alone through the streets of Rome.”  He bowed low and elaborately over the hands of the two women.

“Oh, well; for that matter—­” began Henry Gregg gallantly.

Caldini raised a protesting, white-gloved hand.

“I cannot permit it.”

He bowed again and looked hard at Mary Gowd.  Mary Gowd returned the look.  The brick-red had quite faded from her cheeks.  Then, with a nod, she turned and walked toward the door.  Blue Cape, sword clanking, followed her.

In silence he handed her into the fiacre.  In silence he seated himself beside her.  Then he leaned very close.

“I will talk in this damned English,” he began, “that the pig of a fiaccheraio may not understand.  This—­this Gregg, he is very rich, like all Americans.  And the little Eleanora! Bellissima! You must not stand in my way.  It is not good.”  Mary Dowd sat silent.  “You will help me.  To-day you were not kind.  There will be much money—­money for me; also for you.”

Fifteen years before—­ten years before—­she would have died sooner than listen to a plan such as he proposed; but fifteen years of Rome blunts one’s English sensibilities.  Fifteen years of privation dulls one’s moral sense.  And money meant America.  And little Tweetie Gregg had not lowered her voice or her laugh when she spoke that afternoon of Mary Gowd’s absurd English fringe and her red wrists above her too-short gloves.

“How much?” asked Mary Gowd.  He named a figure.  She laughed.

“More—­much more!”

He named another figure; then another.

“You will put it down on paper,” said Mary Gowd, “and sign your name—­to-morrow.”

They drove the remainder of the way in silence.  At her door in the Via Babbuino: