hanically both men indicated the
sign of the cross at the word "mother."

"But," continued Giovanni, "I am not exactly worthy of a saint--it would
not suit my disposition. It is bad enough associating always with good
Brother Antonio as it is. By the way, where is he?"

He gave a shrill whistle and looked back down the road for the gray
figure of his inseparable friend and companion: not a monk as the name
indicated, but a Great Dane. A distant cloud of dust proclaimed that the
whistle had been heard. "Poor Sant Antonio!" he called as soon as the
dog had caught up, "Where have you been? I suppose you were meditating
along life's highway. No," he continued, "it were best I did not pretend
to be better than I am; my good monk would not absolve me else. Still,
do you know, sometimes I seriously doubt even Brother Antonio's morals!"
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed in great delight. Sansevero seemed
undecided whether to be shocked or amused; ordinarily he would have
laughed easily enough, but Giovanni in some way had seemed to involve
Eleanor in his levity.

"Well," continued Giovanni, "I suppose at least Miss America, not being
a Catholic, will make no objections to Sant Antonio's short-comings!"

At this Sansevero bristled, "Giovanni, I will ask you not to air your
irreligious remarks about that dog with an unseemly name, in connection
with the family of my wife."

For answer Giovanni blew a whistle into the air.

Sansevero grew sulky. "I warn you! Don't let Leonore hear you make
remarks that she might think slighting about her darling! She is like
her own child to her!"

For a few moments both men were silent. Giovanni's face was no longer
mocking; he was watching the beautiful lope of his huge dog. Sansevero
looked straight ahead, quite pensively for him. "Poor Leonore," he said
at last. "It is often such as she who have no children!" Unconsciously
he sighed.

Giovanni smiled, "I don't see what she wants of another child than you!"

"And you will inherit----"

"Please! I am not quite so bad as that. Believe me, I should rejoice for
you if you had children. Leonore would have made a wonderful mother.
Even I might be respectable if a woman such as she loved me as she loves
you. But," he grew flippant again, "to marry one of those
nose-in-the-air, soulless, school-teacher prudes--Never! And in any
event, my dear, I am not so sure I want to marry your heiress. I am very
well as I am!" He shrugged his should