“We have only been to the Vatican as yet,” Stella answered timidly—­she was still much perturbed at the whole incident, but now that she had begun she determined she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and she was conscious that there was a strong attraction in the mild blue eyes of the stranger.  His manner had a complete repose and absence of self-consciousness, which usually is only to be found in the people of race—­in any nation.

“You were taken to the Sistine Chapel, of course,” he went on, “and to the loggia and Bramant’s staircase?  You saw some statues, too, perhaps?”

“My uncle and aunt do not care much for sculpture,” Miss Rawson said, now regaining her composure, “but I like it—­even better than pictures.”

The stranger kept his steady eyes fixed upon her face all the time.

“I have a nymph in my house at home,” he returned.  “She came originally from Rome; she is not Greek and she is very like you, the same droop of head—­I remarked it immediately—­I am superstitious—­I suppose you would call what I mean by that word—­ and I knew directly that some day you, too, would mean things to me.  That is why I spoke—­do you feel it, too?”

Stella Rawson quivered.  The incredible situation paralyzed her.  She—­the Aunt Caroline’s niece, and engaged to Eustace Medlicott, the Bishop’s junior chaplain, to be listening to a grotesque-looking foreigner making subtle speeches of an insinuating character, and, far from feeling scandalized and repulsed, to be conscious that she was thrilled and interested—­it was hardly to be believed!

“Will you tell me from where you come?” she asked with sweet bashfulness, raising two eyes as soft as brown velvet.  “You speak English so very well—­one cannot guess.”

“I am a Russian,” he said simply.  “I come from near Moscow—­and my name is Sasha Roumovski, Count Roumovski.  Yours, I am aware, is Rawson, but I would like to know how you are called—­Mary, perhaps?  That is English.”

“No, my name is not Mary,” she answered, and froze a little—­but the Russian’s eyes continued to gaze at her with the same mild frankness which disarmed any resentment.  She felt they were as calm as deep pools of blue water—­they filled her with a sense of confidence and security—­which she could not account for in any way.

Her color deepened—­something in his peaceful expectancy seemed to compel her to answer his late question.

“My Christian name is Stella,” she said, rather quickly, then added nervously:  “I am engaged to Mr. Eustace Medlicott, an English clergyman—­we are going to be married in September next.”

“And this is May,” was all Count Roumovski replied; then, for the first time since he had addressed her, he turned his eyes from her face, while the faintest smile played round his well-cut mouth.

“A number of things can happen in four months.  Are you looking forward to your life as the wife of a priest—­but I understand it is different in England to in my country—­there I could not recommend the situation to you.”