ly evening. La Signorina leaned over the terrace wall, her hand idly
trailing over the soft cool roses. Afar down the valley shimmered the
lights of Florence. There were no outlines; no towers, no domes, no
roofs were visible; nothing but the dim haze upon which the lights
serenely floated. It might have been a harbor in the peace of night. To
the south, crowning the hills with a faint halo, the moon, yet hidden,
was rising across the heavens. Stretched out on either hand, white and
shadowy, lay the great road. She was dreaming. Presently upon the
silence came the echo of galloping horses. She listened. The sound came
from the north. It died away, only to return again sharply, and this
time without echo. Two horsemen came cantering toward the Villa Ariadne.
They drew down to a walk, and she watched them carelessly. It was not
long before they passed under her. She heard their voices.

"Jack, this has been the trip of my life. Verona, Padua, Bologna, and
now Florence! This is life; nothing like it."

"I am glad, Dan. It has been enjoyable. I only hope our luggage will be
at the hotel for us. Twelve days in riding-breeches are quite enough for
a single stretch."

La Signorina's hand closed convulsively over a rose, and crushed it. The
vine, as she did so, gave forth a rustling sound. The men turned and
glanced up. They saw a woman dimly. That was all.

"A last canter to Fiesole!"

"Off she goes!"

The two went clattering down the road.

La Signorina released the imprisoned rose, and, unmindful of the prick
of the thorn, walked slowly back to the villa. It was fatality that this
man should again cross her path.

CHAPTER XX

KITTY DROPS A BANDBOX

"What's the matter, Jack? Whenever you smoke, your cigar goes out; you
read a newspaper by staring over the top of it; you bump into people on
the streets, when there is plenty of room for you to pass; you leave
your watch under the pillow and have to hike back for it; you forget,
you are absent-minded. Now, what's the matter?"

"I don't know, Dan," said Hillard, relighting his cigar.

"Or you won't tell."

"Perhaps that's more like it."

"It's that woman, though you will not acknowledge it. By George, I'd
like to meet her face to face; I'd give her a piece of my mind."

"Or a piece of your heart!"

"Bah!" cried Merrihew, flipping his cigar-ash to the walk below,
careless whether it struck any of the leisurely-going pedestrians or
not.

"You have not