Roma, leaping up and seating herself at the
instrument. "What shall I play for you, Joseph?"

Joseph was indifferent so long as it was a song, and with head aside,
Roma touched the keys and pretended to think. After a moment of sweet
duplicity she struck up the air she had come expressly to play.

It was the "British Grenadiers." She sang a verse of it. She sang in
English and with the broken pronunciation of a child--

"Some talk of Allisander, and some of Hergoles;
Of Hector and Eyesander, and such gate names as these..."

Suddenly she became aware that David Rossi was looking at her through
the glass on the mantel-piece, and to keep herself from crying she began
to laugh, and the song came to an end.

At the same moment the door burst open with a bang, and the dog came
bounding into the room. Behind it came Elena, who said:

"It was scratching at the staircase door, and I thought it must have
followed you."

"Followed Mr. Rossi, you mean. He has stolen my dog's heart away from
me," said Roma.

"That is what I say about my boy's," said Elena.

"But Joseph is going for a soldier, I see."

"It's a porter he wants to be."

"Then so he shall--he shall be my porter some day," said Roma, whereupon
Joseph was frantic with delight, and Elena was saying to herself, "What
wicked lies they tell of her--I wonder they are not ashamed!"

The fire was going down and the twilight was deepening.

"Shall I bring you the lamp, sir?" said Elena.

"Not for me," said Roma. "I am going immediately." But even when mother
and child had gone she did not go. Unconsciously they drew nearer and
nearer to each other in the gathering darkness, and as the daylight died
their voices softened and there were quiet questions and low replies.
The desire to speak out was struggling in the woman's heart with the
delight of silence. But she would reveal herself at last.

"I have been thinking a great deal about the story they told you in
London--of Roma's death and burial, I mean. Had you no reason to think
it might be false?"

"None whatever."

"It never occurred to you that it might be to anybody's advantage to say
that she was dead while she was still alive?"

"How could it? Who was to perpetrate a crime for the sake of the
daughter of a poor doctor in Soho--a poor prisoner in Elba?"

"Then it was not until afterward that you heard that the poor doctor was
a great prince?"

"Not until the night you were here before."

"