“Yes,” and the pale nondescript head sunk into his hands.  “I have bought it.  I don’t know how.  I had the money, I was there, and I bought it.”

She repressed the word that was on her lips, and the harder thought that was in her mind, looked long at his humiliation until the pity of a mother came over her tired face.  She had mercifully escaped scorning him.  Then she spoke.

“It was a bad time to buy it, wasn’t it, Dear, but it is a beautiful thing, almost worth a real trip to Italy.”  She added with a curious air of a suppliant, “And then perhaps we can sell it.”

“Yes, that’s so, perhaps we can sell it,” echoed John listlessly, wrapping the cross closely in its crimson cover and laying it in his most treasured lacquer box.  “Yes, perhaps we can sell it,” he repeated, and there was a long silence between them.

THE MISSING ST. MICHAEL

Dennis, our Epicurean sage, addressed us all as we lolled on his terrace, drank his tea, and divided our attention between his fluent wisdom and his spacious view of the Valdarno.

“The question is,” he repeated, “what will Emma do?  Will she be brave, or, rather ordinary enough, to act for herself and him, or will she refuse him because of what she thinks we shall think of them both?  As we calmly sit here she may be deciding.  That is if you are sure, Harwood, that Crocker was really bound for Emma’s when you saw him.”

“How could anybody mistake his beaming Emma face?” growled Harwood.  “He was marching like a squad of Bersaglieri.”  “And she knows that Crocker wants it terribly?” added the Sage’s wife.

“She does, indeed,” sighed Frau Stern repentantly, “for that demon (pointing to Harwood) did tell me and I haf, babylike, told her.”

“Here is the case, then,” resumed Dennis:  “She knows we know Crocker wants her and it, but she doesn’t know he doesn’t know she has it.”

“Precisely, most clearly and gracefully put, my dear,” laughed Mrs. Dennis.

“And she knows, too,” he pursued imperturbably, “that we may think he wants her merely for it.”

“Bravo!” puffed Harwood smokily from his camp-stool.  “She is too clever to expect any weak generosity from any of us.  She believes we will think the worst.  And won’t we?  Viva Nietzsche, and perish pity!”

“Shame upon us, then,” cried Frau Stern.  “She will gif up that fine young man for fear of our talk?  Never!”

“She will send him away, dear Frau Stern, the moment he gives her the chance,” declared Dennis.  “What else can she do?  She can never take the chance of our surmises.  Behold us, the destroyers!  The victims are prepared.”

“Can’t we do something about it?” Harwood chuckled.  “Repent?  Be as harmless as doves?  Let’s write a roundrobin solemnly stating that, to the best of our knowledge and belief, he wants her for herself and not for it.”