“I do not believe that Genevra was at heart a coquette.  She was very fond of admiration, but when she saw how much I was disturbed she made an effort to avoid those who flattered her, but her manner was unfortunate, while her voice—­the sweetest I ever heard—­was calculated to invite rather than repel attention.  As the empress of the world, she would have won and kept the homage of mankind, from the humblest beggar in the street to the king upon the throne, and had I been older I should have been proud of what then was my greatest annoyance.  But I was young—­a mere boy—­and so I watched her jealously, until a new element of disquiet was presented to me in the shape of a ruffianly looking fellow, who was frequently seen about the premises, and with whom I once found Genevra in close converse, starting and blushing guiltily when I came upon her, while her companion went swiftly from my sight.

“‘It was an old English acquaintance, who was poor and asking charity,’ she said, when questioned, but her manner led me to think there was something wrong, particularly as I saw her with him again, and thought she held his hand.

“It was evident that my brother would never see America again, and at his request my mother came to us, in company with a family from Boston, reaching us two weeks before he died.  From the first, she disliked Genevra, suspecting the liking between us, but never dreaming of the truth until a week after Jack’s death, when in a fit of anger at Genevra for listening to an English artist, who had asked to paint her picture, the story of the marriage came out, and like a child dependent on its mother for advice, I asked, ‘What shall I do?’

“You know mother, Katy—­that is, you know her pride—­and can in part understand how she would scorn a girl who, though born to better things, was still found in the capacity of a waiting maid.  I never saw her so moved as she was for a time, after learning that her only living son, from whom she expected so much, had thrown himself away, as she expressed it.  Sister Hatty, who loved Genevra, did all she could to heal the growing difference between us, but I trusted mother most.  I believed that what she said was right, and so matters grew worse, until one night, the last we spent in Rome, I missed Genevra from our rooms, and starting in quest of her, found her in a little flower garden back of our dwelling.  There, under the deep shadow of a tree, and partly concealed from view, she stood with her arm around the neck of the same rough-looking man who had been there before.  She did not see me as I stood and watched her while she parted with him, suffering him to kiss her hand and forehead as he said, ‘Good-by, my darling.’