“Bertier,” exclaimed Brewster, “I must have the thing now.  What’s to be done?  You’ve got to help me out.”

But the courier, prodigal as he was of gestures, had no words which seemed pertinent.

“There must be some way of getting at this marquise,” Monty continued reflectively.  “What are her tastes?  Do you know anything about her?”

Suddenly the face of the courier grew bright.  “I have it,” he said, and then he faltered.  “But the expense, monsieur—­it would be heavy.”

“Perhaps we can meet it,” suggested Monty, quietly.  “What’s the idea?”

It was explained, with plenty of action to make it clear.  The courier had heard in Florence that madame la marquise had a passion for automobiles.  But with her inadequate fortune and the many demands upon it, it was a weakness not readily gratified.  The machine she had used during the winter was by no means up-to-date.  Possibly if Monsieur—­yet it was too much—­no villa—­

But Brewster’s decision was made.  “Wire the fellow,” he said, “that I will add to my last offer a French machine of the latest model and the best make.  Say, too, that I would like immediate possession.”

He secured it, and the crowd was transferred at once to fairyland.  There were protests, of course, but these Brewster had grown to expect and he was learning to carry things with a high hand.  The travelers had been preceded by Bertier, and the greeting they received from the steward of the estate and his innumerable assistants was very Italian and full of color.  A break in their monotony was welcome.

The loveliness of the villa and its grounds, which sloped down to the gentle lake, silenced criticism.  For a time it was supremely satisfying to do nothing.  Pettingill wandered about as though he could not believe it was real.  He was lost in a kind of atmosphere of ecstasy.  To the others, who took it more calmly, it was still a sort of paradise.  Those who were happy found in it an intensification of happiness, and to those who were sad it offered the tenderest opportunities for melancholy.  Mrs. Dan told Brewster that only a poet could have had this inspiration.  And Peggy added, “Anything after this would be an anti-climax.  Really, Monty, you would better take us home.”

“I feel like the boy who was shut in a closet for punishment and found it the place where they kept the jam,” said “Subway.”  “It is almost as good as owning Central Park.”

The stables were well equipped and the days wore on in a wonderful peace.  It was on a radiant afternoon, when twelve of the crowd had started out, after tea, for a long ride toward Lugano, that Monty determined to call Peggy Gray to account.  He was certain that she had deliberately avoided him for days and weeks, and he could find no reason for it.  Hour after hour he had lain awake wondering where he had failed her, but the conclusion of one moment was rejected the next.  The Monte Carlo episode seemed the most