Mary Gowd looked straight at him as she said what she had to say: 

“There are things in Rome you cannot understand.  You could not understand unless you lived here many years.  I lived here many months before I learned to step meekly off into the gutter to allow a man to pass on the narrow sidewalk.  You must take your pretty daughter and go away.  To-night!  No—­let me finish.  I will tell you what happened to me fifteen years ago, and I will tell you what this Caldini has in his mind.  You will believe me and forgive me; and promise me that you will go quietly away.”

When she finished Mrs. Gregg was white-faced and luckily too frightened to weep.  Henry Gregg started up in the carriage, his fists white-knuckled, his lean face turned toward the carriage crawling behind.

“Sit down!” commanded Mary Gowd.  She jerked his sleeve.  “Sit down!”

Henry Gregg sat down slowly.  Then he wet his lips slightly and smiled.

“Oh, bosh!” he said.  “This—­this is the twentieth century and we’re Americans, and it’s broad daylight.  Why, I’ll lick the—­”

“This is Rome,” interrupted Mary Gowd quietly, “and you will do nothing of the kind, because he would make you pay for that too, and it would be in all the papers; and your pretty daughter would hang her head in shame forever.”  She put one hand on Henry Gregg’s sleeve.  “You do not know!  You do not!  Promise me you will go.”  The tears sprang suddenly to her English blue eyes.  “Promise me!  Promise me!”

“Henry!” cried Mamma Gregg, very grey-faced.  “Promise, Henry!”

“I promise,” said Henry Gregg, and he turned away.

Mary Gowd sank back in her seat and shut her eyes for a moment.

“Presto!” she said to the half-sleeping driver.  Then she waved a gay hand at the carriage in the rear. “Presto!” she called, smiling. “Presto!”

* * * * *

At six o’clock Mary Gowd entered the little room in the Via Babbuino.  She went first to the window, drew the heavy curtains.  The roar of Rome was hushed to a humming.  She lighted a candle that stood on the table.  Its dim light emphasized the gloom.  She took off the battered black velvet hat and sank into the chintz-covered English chair.  Tina stood in the doorway.  Mary Gowd sat up with a jerk.

“Letters, Tina?”

Tina thought deeply, fumbled at the bosom of her gown and drew out a sealed envelope grudgingly.

Mary Gowd broke the seal, glanced at the letter.  Then, under Tina’s startled gaze, she held it to the flaming candle and watched it burn.

“What is it that you do?” demanded Tina.

Mary Gowd smiled.

“You have heard of America?”

“America!  A thousand—­a million time!  My brother Luigi—­”

“Naturally!  This, then”—­Mary Gowd deliberately gathered up the ashes into a neat pile and held them in her hand, a crumpled heap—­“this then, Tina, is my trip to America.”