he filed tapers of dark cedars, was, he knew, what it
should be. He walked about the winding drives, his eyes dwelling upon
clumps of imported cypress and rare fruit-trees, his approving glance
sweeping over vistas landscaped by his own art, which clever art had set
stone benches in lovely little dells or by pools where a mossy nymph
sprayed the surrounding ferns.

Everything was as it should be. The walls of the white villa would soon
be softened by young vines newly sprouting; the terraces had stretches
of arcades and flowers; large terra-cotta pots filled with acacias and
oleanders massed well against the white of the steps and the blue of the
country sky. The whole scene was almost Italian--sunny, graceful,
restful. The architect smiled happily and knew himself justified of his
undertaking.

But within--within, where most he had dreamed mellowness--where most he
had desired the sense of ripe and harmonious surroundings? Oh, the thing
was too horrible, too outrageous! Could they possibly understand? Could
William Folsom and this Italian wife of his ever be made to see how
unavoidable, inevitable it had all been? Badgely, anxiously gnawing his
lower lip, shook his head. "I'm a fool," he muttered; "and yet I vow I
know of no other way. Talk about vendettas! they are queer here, really
queer--if one were sufficiently to antagonize them!..."

The architect directed his steps to the big stucco garage, still a
little raw-looking with its green shutters and tiles; there he
encountered the head of the workmen who were engaged in restoring the
much-suffering villa furniture. The alert, gray-clad man met him at the
door and shook his head deprecatingly.

"Don't ask me about those heavenly things!" He waved despairing hands.
"They are too lovely. I've been quoting Tasso to that little signorina
of a writing-desk. But, dear man, we can't possibly install any of it
for at least a month. These things are exquisite, priceless, but so
antique they've got to be mothered like babies. The chests are about
the only things in condition, and they've lost their hinges and I've got
to have the lovely brasses copied."

Stepping into the smartly cushioned car, Mr. Badgely sat himself down.
He gave the order dreamily. With a perturbed yet dauntless expression he
lay back on the soft cushions, gazing up to the whirling green of the
trees as the car flew along the country road.

"It all depends on her--it really all depends upon her. If sh