you’re swept down a precipice by an avalanche, and you fall into the crater of a burning volcano.  Every time there is some horrid man who saves you, and then proposes.  As for you, you accept them all with equal readiness, one after another, and what is worse, you won’t give any of them up.  I’ve asked you explicitly which of them you’ll give up, and you actually refuse to say.  My dear child, what are you thinking of?  You can’t have them all.  You can’t have any of them.  None of them are agreeable to your family.  They’re horrid.  What are you going to do?  Oh, how I wish you had dear mamma to take care of you!  But she is in a better world.  And here is poor dear papa who can’t come.  How shocked he would be if he knew all.  What is worst, here is that dreadful American savage, who is gradually killing me.  He certainly will be my death.  What am I to do, dear?  Can’t you possibly show a little sense yourself—­only a little, dear—­and have some consideration for your poor sister?  Even Ethel worries about you, though she has troubles of her own, poor darling; and aunty is really quite ill with anxiety.  What are we going to do?  I know one thing. I’m not going to put up with it.  My mind is made up.  I’ll leave Rome at once, and go home and tell papa.”

“Well, you needn’t scold so,” said Minnie.  “It’s my trouble.  I can’t help it.  They would come.  I’m sure I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you needn’t be so awfully kind to them all.  That’s what encourages them so.  It’s no use for me to try to keep them away if you make them all so welcome.  Now there’s that dreadful Italian.  I’m positive he’s going to get up some unpleasant plot.  These Italians are so very revengeful.  And he thinks you’re so fond of him, and I’m so opposed.  And he’s right, too.  You always act as if you’re fond of him, and all the rest.  As to that terrible American savage, I’m afraid to think of him; I positively am.”

“Well, you needn’t be so awfully unkind to him.  He saved my life.”

“That’s no reason why he should deprive me of mine, which he will do if he goes on so much longer.”

“You were very, very rude to him, Kitty,” said Minnie, severely, “and very, very unkind—­”

“I intended to be so.”

“I really felt like crying, and running out and explaining things.”

“I know you did, and ran back and locked the door.  Oh, you wretched little silly goose, what am I ever to do with such a child as you are!  You’re really not a bit better than a baby.”

This conversation took place on the day following the Baron’s last eventful call.  Poor Mrs. Willoughby was driven to desperation, and lay awake all night, trying to think of some plan to baffle the enemy, but was unsuccessful; and so she tried once more to have some influence over Minnie by a remonstrance as sharp as she could give.

“He’s an American savage.  I believe he’s an Indian.”