amma loves don't interest her a bit.
Her favourite authors are Shakspere and Thomas Hardy, and she reads
Cooper and Sir Walter Scott. So what _can_ you do with a girl like
that?"

"There are other things in life besides society."

"Mamma doesn't think so. I guess we've both done all we can. I'm afraid
poor Maida's doomed. But there's one comfort; she'll look perfectly
beautiful in the white robe and veil that her Sisterhood wears."

Mr. Barrymore gave a sort of groan. "What a vocation for a girl like
that!" he muttered, more to himself than to me, I imagine. "Something
desperate ought to be done."

"_You_ might try to influence her," I said. "Not that I think it's
likely you _could_. But there's no harm in trying."

He didn't answer, but his face was as grave as if I had just invited him
to a funeral, and as even Job couldn't have kept my features from
playing (why shouldn't features play, if they can work?), I hastily
sought the first excuse for laughter I could find lying about loose.

"Oh, how _funny_!" I exclaimed. "Ha, ha, ha, how _funny_!"

"What is funny?" drearily demanded our chauffeur.

"Why, that queer little grey-brown town we're coming to. It looks for
all the world like an exhibition of patent beehives at a country fair."

"That is Tenda," volunteered Mr. Barrymore, still plunged in the depths
of gloom. "Your unfortunate namesake, poor Beatrice di Tenda, would have
been surprised to hear such a simile applied to her native town."

"Who was she?" I felt bound to inquire.

"I was telling Miss Destrey about her yesterday. She seemed interested.
Miss Destrey is very fond of history, isn't she?"

"Yes. But I'm tired talking of her now. I want to hear about the other
Beatrice. I suppose, if she was Italian, she was Bice too; but I'm sure
her friends never made her rhyme with mice."

"Her husband made her rhyme with murder. Did you never hear of the opera
of Beatrice di Tenda? Her story is one of the most romantic tragedies in
history. Well, there she was born, and there she lived as a beautiful
young woman in that old castle whose ruined tower soars so high above
your collection of beehives. When she was in her gentle prime of beauty,
the ferocious Duke Filippo Maria Visconti came riding here from Milan to
court the sweetest lady of her day. She didn't care for him, of course,
but young women of high rank had less choice in those times than they
have in these, and that was the way all the mischief