It spoke eloquently for the impression which he had been able to create in Stella’s imagination of his integrity and reliability, for the thought never entered her brain that it was a most unusual and even hazardous undertaking to start out into the night in a foreign land with a stranger she had not yet known for a week.  But that was the remarkable thing about his personality; it conveyed always an atmosphere of trust and confidence.

It was not long before Miss Rawson was ready, wrapped in the long gray cloak she had worn before, and with the veil tied over her hat, and was descending in the lift alone with Ivan—­her lover having gone on by the stairs.

Their departure was managed with intelligence.  Stella and the servant simply walking out of the hotel and down the street to where the car waited, and then presently Count Roumovski joined them, and they started.

“Ivan will remain behind to answer any questions if the reverend clergyman and your aunt do come,” he said, when they were seated in the car in the settling sunlight.  “And now, sweetheart, we can enjoy our drive.”

Stella felt deliciously excited, all the exultation of adventure thrilling her, and the joy of her lover’s presence.  She cared not where they were going, it was all heaven.

“We shall stop at a little restaurant for some dinner,” he said, “it will be rather bad, but we must not mind, it would not have been wise to risk any well-known place,” and soon they drew up at a small cafe on the outskirts of Rome, where there were a few people already seated at little tables under the trees.  They were all Italians, and took no notice of the Russian and his lady.

It was the greatest amusement to them both, this primitive place, and to be all alone ordering their first meal together, and Sasha Roumovski exerted himself to charm and please her.  He had recovered complete mastery of himself, it would seem, and his manner, while tenderly devoted, had an air of proprietorship which affected Stella exceedingly.

They spent an enchanting half hour, as gay as two children, with all the exquisite under-current of love in their talk; and then they got into the motor again.

“Let us have it open,” Count Roumovski said.  “The evening drive will be divine.”

And Stella agreed.

The road to Viterbo is far from good, one of those splendid routes which lead from Rome which ought to be so perfect and in reality are a mass of ruts and pitfalls for the unwary.  The jolting of the car constantly threw Stella almost into her lover’s arms, who was sitting as aloof as possible.  He had gradually become nearly silent, and sat there holding her hand under the rug, using the whole of his strong will to suppress his rising emotion.

The beautiful colors of the lights of evening over the Campagna; the sense of the spring time and the knowledge that she belonged to him heart and body and soul were madly intoxicating as they rushed through the air.  He dared not let himself caress her gently, which he might have permitted himself to do, and he held her little hand so tightly it was almost pain to her.