“My dear child!” she murmured, “Remember—­we are in Rome.  People judge things so strangely!  What an unfortunate error!—­”

But Sylvie became suddenly unmanageable.  Her love of coquetry and mischief got the better of her, and she thrust out her pretty head over the balcony once more.

“Be quiet, Katrine!” she whispered, “I was longing for a romance, and here is one!” And detaching a rose from her dress she tossed it lightly to the stranger below.  He caught it—­then looked up once more.

“Till we meet,” he said softly in English,—­and moving on among the shadows, disappeared.

“Now, who do you suppose he was?” enquired Sylvie, leaning back against the edge of the balcony, with an arch glance at her gouvernante, “It was someone unlike anyone else here, I am sure!  It was somebody with very bright eyes,—­laughing eyes,—­audacious eyes, because they laughed at me!  They sparkled at me like stars on a frosty night!  Katrine, have you ever been for a sleigh-ride in America?  No, I did not take you there,—­I forgot!  You would have had the rheumatism, poor dear!  Well, when you are in America during the winter, you go for rides over the snow in a big sleigh, with tinkling bells fastened to the horses, and you see the stars flash as you pass—­like the eyes of that interesting gentleman just now.  His face was like a cameo—­I wonder who he is!  I shall find out!  I must do something desperate for Rome is so terribly dull!  But I feel better now!  I like that man’s eyes.  They are such a contrast to the sleepy tiger eyes of the Marquis Fontenelle!”

“My dear Sylvie!” remonstrated Madame Bozier, “How can you run on in this way?  Do you want to break any more hearts?  You are like a lamp for unfortunate moths to burn themselves in!”

“Oh no, not I,” said Sylvie, shaking her head with a touch of half melancholy scorn, “I am not a ‘professional’ beauty!  The Prince of Wales does not select me for his admiration,—­hence it follows that I cannot possibly be an attraction in Europe.  I have not the large frame, the large hands, and the still larger feet of the beautiful English ladies, who rule royal hearts and millionaires’ pockets!  Men scarcely notice me till they come to know me—­and then, pouf!—­away go their brains!—­and they grovel at my small feet instead of the large ones of the English ladies!” She laughed.  “Now how is that, Katrine?”

“C’est du charme—­toujurs du charme!” murmured Madame Bozier, studying with a wistful affection the dainty lines of Sylvie’s slight figure, “And that is an even more fatal gift than beauty, chere petite!”

“Du charme!  You think that is it?  Yes?—­and so the men grow stupid and wild!—­some want me, and some want my fortune—­and some do not know what they want!—­but one thing is certain, that they all quarrel together about me, and bore me to extinction!—­Even the stranger with the bright stars of an American winter for eyes, might possibly bore me if I knew him!”