e American lady had run over her own
child. That blood-curdling shriek of horror! that jolt on a soft
yielding substance was the passage of her wheels on her flesh, the
additional weight of stout Countess di Moccoli and of Count Martellini
aiding, if possible, in crushing out a fragile existence.

Later the count was confronted by a white stricken woman. He was full
of sympathy and pity for his playmate; tears stood in his beautiful
eyes.

"Leave us alone!" she said, fiercely, even wildly.

The count shrugged his shoulders, frowned, and departed. Palpable
injustice in the capricious creature woman. He was a philosopher, and
appeared at a diplomatic reception that evening. Matters might have
been worse. As a sentimentalist he had made as much love as he dared
to a pretty married woman whose husband was absent, while she was
manifestly flattered by his attentions. Practically speaking, he as an
impoverished noble had reaped advantage from his place as habitue of
the circle of a rich American in a land where a nice percentage exists
on custom. He had directed the money of Henry Denvil into those
channels of expenditure which would benefit himself by skilful advice.
The Nile voyage would set the world wholly at defiance.

Stout, good-natured Countess di Moccoli also appeared at the
diplomatic reception that evening, and we may rest assured no mention
was made of a young girl having been run over at the Pincio in the
gilded salons where both moved. One does not mention illness and death
in gilded salons, amid the ripple of music and laughter. One frequents
these resorts to forget, if possible, such grim and ghastly realities.

Thus closed the 23d of November, 18--.

II.

"The house rests not on the earth, but on the
wife."--_Servian Proverb._

Mr. Henry Denvil arose at ten o'clock on the morning of the 24th of
November. His head ached; his recollections of the previous evening
were confused, further than a conviction that he had partaken of a
champagne supper at the hotel, and played cards for money afterward
with Jacques Robin and his wife. A man must occupy his evenings in
some way.

The habits of earlier life were still sufficiently strong to render
him ashamed of having slept until ten o'clock. He drank his coffee
hastily, pressed his slouch hat down over his brow, and did not glance
at the hotel as he walked along the village street to the foundry.
Eyes were watching him