Having completed the round, he made a brief address, the purport of which was that he was about to give us his blessing, and he wished that it might be diffused to all our families and friends, and be not for the present moment only, but extend through our whole lives and abide with us in the hour of death; “But remember,” said he with a kind of paternal benignity, “that the gates of paradise open rarely to any who are without the communion of the Holy Catholic Church.  Sometimes perhaps—­sometimes—­but with great difficulty.”  He extended his hands.  We dropped on our knees and received the blessing of this benign old man, whom the larger part of Christendom revere as the earthly head of the Church.  As we were making our way through the stately columns of the colonnade which forms the approach to the Vatican I saw the count glance at the amulet which Helen wore.  “What is in it?” I asked.

“A relic of the blessed Saint Francis, my patron,” he replied.

“It will lose its efficacy on the neck of a little heretic like Miss St. Clair,” said I with a purpose.

“It will do her no harm,” said he coldly.

Monday I was at the table d’hote the first time for a week.  I found the count seated next to Miss St. Clair.  It was very simple, she explained to me afterward.  A lady occupied his seat one day, and he came round to the only vacant one, which happened to be next hers.  I am a very guileless person, but I think Vincenzo had an excellent reason for letting it happen.  Helen was on my left hand as usual, and the Italian marquis on my right.

“I am sorry for that boy,” said he to me:  “he is very unhappy.”

“The young count?  What is the matter?”

“Don’t you see?  He is madly in love with your bewitching little American.  It is his first impression, and he takes it hard.  Well, he will have to learn like the rest of us.”

“I hope you are mistaken;” and I glanced uneasily at my young neighbors, who were too much absorbed in their own conversation to heed that between the marquis and myself.

“That is impossible.  He raves to me about her.  It is very pretty too—­a perfect idyl, all poetry and romance—­eternal, unchangeable, and all that boyish nonsense.  We older men know better.  But monsignore will be here soon, and he will look after him.”

“Who is monsignore?”

“The archbishop of Toledo, his guardian.  He has been here, but some diocesan matter called him home.  He will be back anon, and then the count will dine at home.  As to that, he does now, and delicious dinners they are, too.  He only makes a pretence of eating here, just to have a chance to see his little divinity.”

“He was here when we came.”

“True, but only for a day or two while his house was put in order.  The house is well worth seeing—­one of the finest on the Corso.  It is not open to strangers, but if you would like to see it—­”

“Certainly not,” I interrupted, a little irritably, the more so from the consciousness of having been a somewhat careless chaperone.  I was coming sharply up to the line of duty now, at all events.