The following afternoon found him still in that enviable condition as he stood listening to the music on the Pincian Hill.  He had it of rumor that the Fashion of Rome usually took a turn there before it went to tea, and he had it from the lady herself that Madame de Vaurigard would be there.  Presently she came, reclining in a victoria, the harness of her horses flashing with gold in the sunshine.  She wore a long ermine stole; her hat was ermine; she carried a muff of the same fur, and Mellin thought it a perfect finish to the picture that a dark gentleman of an appearance most distinguished should be sitting beside her.  An Italian noble, surely!

He saw the American at once, nodded to him and waved her hand.  The victoria went on a little way beyond the turn of the drive, drew out of the line of carriages, and stopped.

“Ah, Monsieur Mellin,” she cried, as he came up, “I am glad!  I was so foolish yesterday I didn’ give you the address of my little apartment an’ I forgot to ask you what is your hotel.  I tol’ you I would come here for my drive, but still I might have lost you for ever.  See what many people!  It is jus’ that Fate again.”

She laughed, and looked to the Italian for sympathy in her kindly merriment.  He smiled cordially upon her, then lifted his hat and smiled as cordially upon Mellin.

“I am so happy to fin’ myself in Rome that I forget”—­Madame de Vaurigard went on—­“ever’sing! But now I mus’ make sure not to lose you.  What is your hotel?”

“Oh, the Magnifique,” Mellin answered carelessly.  “I suppose everybody that one knows stops there.  One does stop there, when one is in Rome, doesn’t one?”

“Everybody go’ there for tea, and to eat, sometime, but to stay—­ah, that is for the American!” she laughed.  “That is for you who are all so abomin-ab-ly rich!” She smiled to the Italian again, and both of them smiled beamingly on Mellin.

“But that isn’t always our fault, is it?” said Mellin easily.

“Aha!  You mean you are of the new generation, of the yo’ng American’ who come over an’ try to spen’ these immense fortune’—­those ’pile’—­your father or your gran-father make!  I know quite well.  Ah?”

“Well,” he hesitated, smiling.  “I suppose it does look a little by way of being like that.”

“Wicked fellow!” She leaned forward and tapped his shoulder chidingly with two fingers.  “I know what you wish the mos’ in the worl’—­you wish to get into mischief.  That is it!  No, sir, I will jus’ take you in han’!”

“When will you take me?” he asked boldly.

At this, the pleasant murmur of laughter—­half actual and half suggested—­with which she underlined the conversation, became loud and clear, as she allowed her vivacious glance to strike straight into his upturned eyes, and answered: 

“As long as a little turn roun’ the hill, now.  Cavaliere Corni—­”