d her head twice, each time to see
the cure's black-robed figure marching at a good pace away from the
villa. Then she went on faster; and the importance of the incident began
to fade from her mind. Not that it had ever had any real importance, she
assured herself. Only, she hated priests as she would hate to see a
raven fly over her head. They seemed somehow ominous; and she could not
understand why a member of the interfering tribe wanted to see Miss
Grant, unless to try and get her away into less worldly surroundings.
Lady Dauntrey did not wish Mary to go; and she was glad she had acted on
impulse, saying that the girl was out. It was lucky that she had met the
priest, for had he arrived a minute sooner or a minute later, a servant
would have told him that Miss Grant was in. Eve decided that she would
forget to mention the cure of Roquebrune's visit.

Having said that he would go to the Church of Sainte Devote, the cure
conscientiously kept his word. Luckily the Villa Bella Vista was not far
from the deep, dim ravine where the patron saint of Monaco was supposed
to have drifted ashore in a boat, piloted by a sacred dove, and rowed by
faithful followers after suffering martyrdom in Corsica. The cure was
fond of the strange little church of sweet chimes, almost hidden between
immense, concealing walls of rock; but to-day he merely paid his
respects to the saint and quickly went his way again. Twenty minutes
after parting from Lady Dauntrey, he rang the bell of her villa, and was
told by an untidy servant that Miss Grant was at home.

Mary was waiting in the house to receive Mrs. Winter, who had been
persuaded by Carleton to overlook the girl's neglect, and to call once
more, with him. Dick had asked Mary not to speak of the visit in advance
to Lady Dauntrey, as his cousin wanted a chance for a talk,
uninterrupted by the mistress of the villa; and Mary half guiltily,
though with a certain pleasure, had consented. Instinctively she guessed
that Eve would have taken the call for herself, and that Mrs. Winter
would have found little time to chat with any one else. It was hateful
to be hypercritical, Mary felt, yet she had begun to see that Lady
Dauntrey was curiously jealous of her; that she did not like to see her
talk with strangers, or alone even with other guests of the house.

When the cure of Roquebrune was ushered in, Mary was expecting Dick to
arrive with his cousin; but for the moment she was alone in the
drawin