y
into a ruin, but for That Fellow to proclaim that it wouldn't have
happened had _he_ been the owner was _too_ much! The democratic and
socialist papers ("rags," according to Grandmother) stood up for the
self-made cowboy baronet, and blamed the great lady who had "thrown away
in selfish extravagance" what should have paid the upkeep of an historic
monument. This, to a woman who directed the most patriotic _ouvroir_ in
London! And to pile Ossa on Pelion, our Grosvenor Square landlord was
cad enough to tell his friends (who told theirs, etc., etc.) that he had
never received his rent! Which statement, by the way, was all the more
of a libel because it was true.

Now you understand how Sir James Courtenaye was responsible for driving
us to Italy, and indirectly bringing about my marriage; for Grandmother
wiped the dust of Grosvenor Square from our feet with Italian passports,
and swept me off to new activities in Rome.

Here was Mr. Carstairs' moment to say, "I told you so! If only you had
left the Abbey when I advised you that it was best, all would have been
well. Now, with the central hall in ruins, nobody would be found dead in
the place, not even a munition millionaire." But being a particularly
kind man he said nothing of the sort. He merely implored Grandmother to
live economically in Rome: and of course (being Grandmother!) she did
nothing of the sort.

We lived at the most expensive hotel, and whenever we had any money,
gave it to the Croce Rossa, running up bills for ourselves. But we mixed
much joy with a little charity, and my descriptive letters to Shelagh
were so attractive that she persuaded Mr. and Mrs. Pollen, her guardians
(uncle and aunt; sickening snobs!), to bring her to Rome; pretext, Red
Cross work, which covered so much frivolling in the war! Then, not long
after, the cowboy's friend, Roger Fane, appeared on the scene, in the
American Expeditionary Force; a thrilling, handsome, and mysteriously
tragic person. James Courtenaye also turned up, having been ordered to
the Italian Front; but Grandmother and I contrived never to meet him.
And when our financial affairs began to rumble like an earthquake, Mr.
Carstairs decided to see Grandmother in person.

It was when she received his telegram, "Coming at once," that she
decided I must accept Prince di Miramare. She had wanted an Englishman
for me; but a Prince is a Prince, and though Paolo was far from rich at
the moment, he had the prospect of an