rising palely over Lecco; the moon, mistress
of love and tides, toward whom all men and maids must look, though only
Eros knows why! Evidently there was no answer to the Italian's question,
for he faced about and walked moodily toward the entrance. Here he paused,
looking up at the empty window. Again a snatch of song--

_O solo mio_ ... _che bella cosa_...!

What a beautiful thing indeed! Passionately he longed for the old days,
when by his physical prowess alone oft a man won his lady. Diplomacy,
torrents of words, sly little tricks, subterfuges, adroitness, stolen
glances, careless touches of the hand; by these must a maid be won to-day.
When she was happy she sang, when she was sad, when she was only
mischievous. She was just as likely to sing _O terra addio_ when she was
happy as _O sole mio_ when she was sad. So, how was a man to know the
right approach to her variant moods? Sighing deeply, he went on to his
room, to change his Piccadilly suit for another which was supposed to be
the last word in the matter of evening dress.

Below, in the village, a man entered the Grand Hotel. He was tall, blond,
rosy-cheeked. He carried himself like one used to military service; also,
like one used to giving peremptory orders. The porter bowed, the director
bowed, and the proprietor himself became a living carpenter's square,
hinged. The porter and the director recognized a personage; the proprietor
recognized the man. It was of no consequence that the new arrival called
himself Herr Rosen. He was assigned to a suite of rooms, and on returning
to the bureau, the proprietor squinted his eyes abstractedly. He knew
every woman of importance at that time residing on the Point. Certainly it
could be none of these. _Himmel!_ He struck his hands together. So that
was it: the singer. He recalled the hints in certain newspaper paragraphs,
the little tales with the names left to the imagination. So that was it?

What a woman! Men looked at her and went mad. And not so long ago one had
abducted her in Paris. The proprietor threw up his hands in despair. What
was going to happen to the peace of this bucolic spot? The youth permitted
nothing to stand in his way, and the singer's father was a retired fighter
with boxing-gloves!

CHAPTER VIII

MOONLIGHT AND A PRINCE

When he had fought what he considered two rattling rounds, Harrigan
conceded that his cravat had once more got the decision over him on
points. And the cravat was