n.

As usual, he was _blase_--so different from Mr. Barrymore, who has seen
the best things in Italy as often as Prince Dalmar-Kalm has, yet never
tires; indeed, finds something new each time.

The Prince began by announcing that Verona bored him. But one could
always go to sleep.

"That's what I mean to do," said Aunt Kathryn, who generally takes her
cue from him. "I consider that I've seen Verona now, and I shall lie
down this afternoon. Perhaps later I shall write a few letters in the
hall."

I was unkind enough to fancy this a hint for the Prince, but perhaps I
wronged her. And anyway, why should she not give him hints if she likes?
He has been very attentive to her, although for the last few days I
don't think they have been quite so much in "each others' pockets" (as
Beechy calls it) as before.

A little attention was needed by the automobile, it appeared--such as a
tightening up of chains, and a couple of lost grease-cups to replace;
therefore Mr. Barrymore's time would be filled up without any
sight-seeing. But Sir Ralph offered to take Beechy and me anywhere we
liked to go. I was very glad that the Prince said nothing about
accompanying us, for somehow I'd been afraid he would.

We consulted guide-books until we were bewildered, but in the midst of
confusion I held fast to two things. We had seen Romeo's house, towering
picturesquely behind the Scaligers' tombs; but I wanted to see where
Juliet had lived, and where she had been buried.

"The Prince says it's all nonsense," exclaimed Aunt Kathryn. "If there
was a slight foundation for the story in a great family scandal here
about Shakspere's time, anyhow there's none for the houses or the
tomb--"

Beechy stopped her ears. "You're _real mean_," she said, "you and the
Prince both. It's just as bad as when you thought it your duty to tell
me there was no Santa Claus. But I don't care; there _is_. I shall
believe it when I'm _seventeen_; and I believe in the Romeo and Juliet
houses too."

But when we were in the street of Juliet's house--she and Sir Ralph and
I--Beechy pouted. Standing with her hands behind her, her long braids of
hair dangling half-way down her short skirt as she threw back her head
to gaze up, she looked incredibly modern and American. "There were no
tourists' agencies in those days," she remarked, regretfully, "so I
suppose Shakspere _had_ to trust to hearsay, and somebody must have told
him a big tarradiddle. I guess Juliet was real