ugh of course carefully concealed,
satisfaction in my own little fame; which fame I foster by a gentle
system of non-interference. I know that I am spoken of as "that quiet
young fellow who writes those delightful little studies of society, you
know;" and I live up to that definition.

A year ago I was in Rome, and enjoying life particularly. I had a large
number of my acquaintances there, both American and English, and no day
passed without its invitation. Of course I understood it: it is seldom
that you find a literary man who is good-tempered, well-dressed,
sufficiently provided with money, and amiably obedient to all the rules
and requirements of "society." "When found, make a note of it;" and the
note was generally an invitation.

One evening, upon returning to my lodgings, my man Simpson informed me
that a person had called in the afternoon, and upon learning that I was
absent had left not a card, but her name--"Miss Grief." The title
lingered--Miss Grief! "Grief has not so far visited me here," I said to
myself, dismissing Simpson and seeking my little balcony for a final
smoke, "and she shall not now. I shall take care to be 'not at home' to
her if she continues to call." And then I fell to thinking of Isabel
Abercrombie, in whose society I had spent that and many evenings: they
were golden thoughts.

The next day there was an excursion; it was late when I reached my
rooms, and again Simpson informed me that Miss Grief had called.

"Is she coming continuously?" I said, half to myself.

"Yes, sir: she mentioned that she should call again."

"How does she look?"

"Well, sir, a lady, but not so prosperous as she was, I should say,"
answered Simpson, discreetly.

"Young?"

"No, sir."

"Alone?"

"A maid with her, sir."

But once outside in my little high-up balcony with my cigar, I again
forgot Miss Grief and whatever she might represent. Who would not
forget in that moonlight, with Isabel Abercrombie's face to remember?

The stranger came a third time, and I was absent; then she let two days
pass, and began again. It grew to be a regular dialogue between Simpson
and myself when I came in at night: "Grief to-day?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time?"

"Four, sir."

"Happy the man," I thought, "who can keep her confined to a particular
hour!"

But I should not have treated my visitor so cavalierly if I had not
felt sure that she was eccentric and unconventional--qualities
extremely tiresome in a woman