l events," said Anthony, "she will be restrained in spite of
herself, if the fact is impressed upon her that the sacrifice she
contemplates making on my behalf is one that I will not accept--that no
man could accept. She can't make her properties over to me if I refuse
to accept them."

"No, I suppose she cannot," said Father Angelo. His hand came forth
from his sleeve, to stroke his beard, thoughtfully. "But the
properties are in all right and justice yours. Why should you not
accept them? You are the legitimate Conte di Sampaolo. You are
entitled to your own."

"My dear Father!" Anthony cried out, almost writhing. "It is a matter,
I tell you, that I cannot even discuss. Accept them! And allow an
inexperienced young girl, who can't possibly understand the
consequences of her action, on a quixotic impulse, to beggar herself
for me, to give up everything, to retire from the world and die by slow
inches in a convent! The thing is too monstrous. A man could never
hold up his head again."

"It would be well," said the Father, slowly, "if you were to tell her
this in person. You had better see her, and tell her it in person."

"When can I see her?" Anthony asked, impetuous.

"When you will. She much desires to see you," the Father answered.

"The sooner, the better," said Anthony. "The sooner she definitely and
permanently dismisses this folly from her mind, the better for every
one concerned."

"Possibly you could go with me now?" the Father suggested. "Her
launch, which brought me here, attends at the end of the garden."

"Certainly I will go with you now," said Anthony. "Wait while I put on
a coat."

He ran back to the tennis-court, caught up his coat, and donned it.
Then, all heated and in flannels as he was, he accompanied Father
Angelo to the launch.

XXV

Susanna, Miss Sandus, a white peacock, and six ring-doves were taking
refreshments in the garden, in the shade of an oleander-tree. There
were cakes, figs, and lemonade, grains of dried maize, and plenty of
good succulent hemp-seed. The ring-doves liked the hemp-seed and the
maize, but the white peacock seemed to prefer sponge-cake soaked in
lemonade.

"I know a literary man who once taught a peacock to eat sponge-cake
soaked in absinthe," Miss Sandus remarked, on a key of reminiscence.

"Really? An unprincipled French literary man, I suppose?" was
Susanna's natural inference.

"No, that's the funny part of it," said Miss S