ning. I should think you'd go to Genoa and
visit Jenny."

"We must arrange that, Roma. It's such an opportunity." Though Mrs.
Wanning addressed her daughter, she looked at her husband. "You
would get on so well among their friends. When Count Aldrini was
here you spoke Italian much better than poor Jenny. I remember when
we entertained him, he could scarcely say anything to her at all."

Florence tried to call up an answering flicker of amusement upon her
sister's calm, well-bred face. She thought her mother was rather
outdoing herself tonight,--since Aldrini had at least managed to say
the one important thing to Jenny, somehow, somewhere. Jenny Lane had
been Roma's friend and schoolmate, and the Count was an ephemeral
hope in Orange. Mrs. Wanning was one of the first matrons to declare
that she had no prejudices against foreigners, and at the dinners
that were given for the Count, Roma was always put next him to act
as interpreter.

Roma again turned to her father.

"If I were you, dear, I would let Mr. Lane tell me about his doctor.
New discoveries are often made by queer people."

Roma's voice was low and sympathetic; she never lost her dignity.

Florence asked if she might have her coffee in her room, while she
dashed off a note, and she ran upstairs humming "Bright Lights" and
wondering how she was going to stand her family until the summer
scattering. Why could Roma never throw off her elegant reserve and
call things by their names? She sometimes thought she might like her
sister, if she would only come out in the open and howl about her
disappointments.

Roma, drinking her coffee deliberately, asked her father if they
might have the car early, as they wanted to pick up Mr. Allen and
Mr. Rydberg on their way to rehearsal.

Wanning said certainly. Heaven knew he was not stingy about his car,
though he could never quite forget that in his day it was the young
men who used to call for the girls when they went to rehearsals.

"You are going with us, Mother?" Roma asked as they rose.

"I think so dear. Your father will want to go to bed early, and I
shall sleep better if I go out. I am going to town tomorrow to pour
tea for Harold. We must get him some new silver, Paul. I am quite
ashamed of his spoons."

Harold, the only son, was a playwright--as yet "unproduced"--and he
had a studio in Washington Square.

A half-hour later, Wanning was alone in his library. He would not
permit himself to feel aggrieve