Nina laughed deliciously with real joy—­she loved his selection, because it seemed to express him.

“It was awfully sweet of you, Jack.  And I shall adore them!  I am so glad you did not bring the regular selection of ‘Walks in Rome.’”

“What I ought to have brought you,” he answered, “was a big thick journal—­one of those padlocked ones—­to write up Italian court life as it really is.  You mustn’t miss such a chance!  It could be published after everybody mentioned in it, is dead, including yourself.  Wouldn’t it be great!”

“You need not make fun of me.  I don’t think you half appreciate how wonderful it is going to be,” Nina returned enthusiastically.  “Think of it, I am going to live in a palace!”

Derby threw back his head and laughed.

“What do you call this house?  It is a great deal more of a palace than the tumble-down, musty ones of Italy.”

Mrs. Randolph seemed enchanted with this rejoinder, for she laughed rather exultantly as she exclaimed, “Nina will be ready enough to come home at the end of a week!”

Instead of answering Nina jumped up from the table, calling “There you are at last, Father darling!”

Her father, a man of distinguished presence, had come into the room looking at his watch from force of habit.  And though his eyes rested upon his daughter with very evident pride and affection, the custom of quickly terminated interviews and the economy of precious time gave a sharp, decisive curtness to his manner.  Every one who came in contact with him felt the impelling necessity of coming to the point as clearly and tersely as possible.  Just now, with a “Hello, John, my boy,” he held out his hand to Derby and shook his head negatively in answer to his wife’s inquiry if he wanted luncheon.

“Well, are you ready to start?” he asked his daughter, smiling.  And then to Derby he added, “Excuse Nina for a few moments, John; I want to speak with her.  You are going down to the steamer with her, of course?” As Derby answered affirmatively, Nina picked up her books and followed her father.

In his own study he drew her to a sofa beside him, and from a number of papers in his pocket he handed her an envelope.

“Here is your letter of credit.  I doubt if you will need the whole amount of it.  If, on the contrary, you find you want more for anything special, write or cable to the office.”

Out of another pocket he drew a white muslin bag, such as bankers use.  It held a quantity of Italian gold and a roll of Italian bank notes.  This was “change” to have with her when she should arrive.  He talked with her for some time on various topics; on the beauty of Italy, the charm of the people; of his admiration for Eleanor Sansevero.  “But dearest,” he ended, “one word on the subject of European men:  you will probably have a good deal of attention.  I don’t want to spoil your enjoyment, but you must remember the hard, cold fact that it will be chiefly because you are Miss Millionaire.”