haunt their farther
progress. He put himself plumply in front of the officer and demanded in
very blunt Italian: "What do you want?"

The lieutenant stared him over with potential offence, in which his
delicately pencilled mustache took the shape of a light sneer, and
demanded in his turn, in English much better than Lanfear's Italian:
"What right have you to ask?"

"The right of Miss Gerald's physician. She is an invalid in my charge."

A change quite indefinable except as the visible transition from coxcomb
to gentleman passed over the young lieutenant's comely face. "An
invalid?" he faltered.

"Yes," Lanfear began; and then, with a rush of confidence which the
change in the officer's face justified, "one very strangely, very
tragically afflicted. Since she saw her mother killed in an accident a
year ago she remembers nothing. She bowed to you because she saw you
looking at her, and supposed you must be an acquaintance. May I assure
you that you are altogether mistaken?"

The lieutenant brought his heels together, and bent low. "I beg her
pardon with all my heart. I am very, very sorry. I will do anything I
can. I would like to stop that. May I bring my mother to call on Miss
Gerald?"

He offered his hand, and Lanfear wrung it hard, a lump of gratitude in
his throat choking any particular utterance, while a fine shame for his
late hostile intention covered him.

When the lieutenant came, with all possible circumstance, bringing the
countess, his mother, Mr. Gerald overwhelmed them with hospitality of
every form. The Italian lady responded effusively, and more sincerely
cooed and murmured her compassionate interest in his daughter. Then all
parted the best of friends; but when it was over, Miss Gerald did not
know what it had been about. She had not remembered the lieutenant or
her father's vexation, or any phase of the incident which was now
closed. Nothing remained of it but the lieutenant's right, which he
gravely exercised, of saluting them respectfully whenever he met them.

VII

Earlier, Lanfear had never allowed himself to be far out of call from
Miss Gerald's father, especially during the daytime slumbers into which
she fell, and from which they both always dreaded her awakening. But as
the days went on and the event continued the same he allowed himself
greater range. Formerly the three went their walks or drives together,
but now he sometimes went alone. In these absences he found relief from
t