st up his eyes in deep distress.

"Indeed it does. But I have dined. What I want is a cup of coffee,
and--and a liqueur--une fine. And may I look over your wonderful
visitors' book? To tell the truth, that is what I have come for, to see
the marvellous book. I hadn't enough time the other night. May I?"

The Padrone was appeased. He smiled graciously and turned upon his
heels.

"At once, Signora."

"And--not a word to the Marchese! He is with friends. I would rather not
disturb him."

The Padrone threw up his chin and clicked his tongue against his teeth.
A shrewd, though not at all impudent, expression had come into his face.
A Signora alone, at night, in a restaurant! He was a man of the great
world. He understood. What a mercy it was to be "educato"!

He came back again almost directly, bearing the book as a sacristan
might bear a black-letter Bible.

"Ecco, Signora."

With a superb gesture he placed it before her.

"The coffee, the fine. Attendez, Signora, pour un petit momento."

He stood to see the effect of his French upon her. She forced into
her face a look of pious admiration, and he at once departed. Hermione
opened the book rather furtively. She had the unpleasant sensation
of doing a surreptitious action, and she was an almost abnormally
straightforward woman by nature. The book was large, and contained
an immense number of inscriptions and signatures in handwritings that
varied as strangely as do the characters of men. She turned the leaves
hastily. Where had Emile written? Not at the end of the book. She
remembered that his signature had been followed by others, although she
had not seen, or tried to see, what he had written. Perhaps his name
was near Tolstoy's. They had read together Tolstoy's _Vedi Napoli e poi
Mori_.

But where was Tolstoy's name?

A waiter came with the coffee and the brandy. She thanked him quickly,
sipped the coffee without tasting it, and continued the search.

The voice of the blind man died away. The guitars ceased.

She started. She was afraid the musicians would come down and gather
round her. Why had she not told the Padrone she wished to be quite
alone? She heard the shuffle of feet. They were coming. Feverishly she
turned the pages. Ah! here is was! She bent down over the page.

"La conscience, c'est la quantite de science innee que nous avons
en nous. EMILE ARTOIS.

"Nuit d'orage. Juin."

The guitars began a prelude. The blind man shifted