A Lady of Rome. F. Marion Crawford

of indifferent matters, much as usual, and presently went into the drawing-room. It was warm already, and the blinds were closed to keep out the blazing sunlight and the reflection from the white street. The friends sat near each other, exchanging a few words now and then, and both were preoccupied, which hindered each from noticing that the other was so.

      Leone knelt on a chair at the window looking down into the street between the slits of the green blinds.

      ‘Summer is coming!’ he suddenly called out, turning to look at his mother.

      ‘Yes,’ she answered, smiling at him merely because he spoke. ‘It will come soon.’

      ‘But do you know why? There are two bersaglieri in linen trousers.’

      ‘Yes, dear. They have probably been drilling.’

      ‘No,’ answered the small boy. ‘They have no knapsacks and no rifles, and they are not dusty. It is because summer is coming that they wear linen trousers. I can’t see them any more. They walk so fast, you know. When shall I be a bersagliere, mama?’

      ‘Would you not rather be a sailor?’ asked Giuliana.

      ‘Oh, no!’ Leone laughed. ‘A sailor? To sit inside an iron box and shoot off guns at other iron boxes? That’s not fighting! But the bersaglieri, they charge the enemy and kill them with their bayonets. And sometimes they are killed themselves. But that doesn’t matter, for they have had the glory!’

      ‘What glory?’ inquired Maria, watching the small boy’s flashing eyes.

      ‘They kill the enemies of Italy,’ he answered. ‘That’s glory!’

      He turned to look through the blinds again, doubtless in the hope of seeing more soldiers.

      ‘Your son certainly has a warlike disposition, my dear,’ laughed Giuliana.

      But Maria did not laugh; on the contrary, she looked rather grave.

      ‘All boys want to be soldiers,’ she answered. ‘I’m sure yours do, too!’

      ‘No,’ said Giuliana, rising. ‘My boys are almost too peaceable! I sometimes wish they had more of Leone’s spirit!’

      Maria looked at her thoughtfully, thinking at first of what she had said, but suddenly realised that she had left her seat.

      ‘You are not going already?’ Maria cried in real anxiety.

      ‘Yes, dear, I must. It’s a quarter past two, and I have to allow five minutes for driving to the Quirinal.’

      ‘You did not tell me that you had an audience to-day,’ said Maria, deeply disappointed. ‘I’m so sorry! I had hoped you would stay with me, and that we might go out together by and by. How long shall you be there? Can you not come directly back?’

      Giuliana was a little surprised; she shook her head doubtfully.

      ‘I’ll try to come back, but I really have not the least idea how long I may be kept. You see, it’s a special audience to talk about my working women’s institute, and I have so much to say. I really must be going, dear!’

      She glanced again at her little watch, which was fastened high up on the close-fitting dove-coloured body of her frock by a little jade bar carved to imitate the twist of a rope, and just then the very latest invention in the way of indispensable nothings. Giuliana, without the least coquetry and with very little vanity as to her appearance, always seemed to have everything new just a week sooner than any one else. The truth was that her husband was in love with her, and likely to remain so, and as he had spent a good deal of his youth in women’s society, he thoroughly understood such matters; and he superintended the docile and pretty Giuliana’s toilet with quite as much care as he gave to the direction of his subordinates, though he was Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, with a very promising future before him and a good deal to do.

      Giuliana kissed her friend on both cheeks and said good-bye to Leone, who did not like to be kissed at all, and in a moment she was gone.

      Maria went to the window where the boy was, and, resting one hand on his shoulder, she bent down beside him and looked through the blinds.

      ‘Have you seen any more soldiers?’ she asked, after a moment, and as if the question were an important one.

      ‘Only two,’ he answered. ‘They’re all at dinner now. It’s the time.’

      Her face was close to the child’s as she looked out with him; and just then he moved his head and his short and thick brown hair brushed her cheek. She started a little nervously and stood upright, looking down at the top of his head.

      ‘What is it, mama?’ he asked without taking his eyes from the blinds, for just then he saw an officer of the Piedmont Lancers crossing the street, and the beautiful uniform of that regiment was always an especially delightful sight.

      ‘Nothing, darling,’ answered Maria.

      As she looked at the short and thick brown hair it seemed to draw her to it, and she bent slowly, as if she were going to kiss it. But at that very moment, when her lips were quite near it, her eyes could see through the blinds, and she caught sight of the officer before he disappeared.

      She drew back and quickly covered her lips with her hand, as if to put it between her mouth and her child’s head. Castiglione had been in the Piedmont Lancers before he had exchanged, and the uniform was the one he had worn when he had first danced with her at the Villa Montalto, and afterwards, when he had first dined with her and her husband, and later again, and the last time she had seen him before he had gone away. The handsome dress was associated with all her life.

      She crossed the room quickly and rang a bell, and waited a moment, listening for the servant. She would say that she did not receive, no matter who came. Then she heard footsteps outside the drawing-room door, and it opened wide and Agostino, the old butler, announced a visitor.

      ‘Il Signor Conte del Castiglione.’

      When Baldassare entered the room a moment later, Leone had left the window and was at his mother’s side, holding her hand and eyeing the man he had never seen, and whose name he had never heard, with a boy’s boldly inquiring stare; and the blue eyes of the man and of the child met for the first time.

      ‘I came early,’ said Castiglione as he advanced, ‘for I was afraid you might be going to the races.’

      ‘No,’ Maria answered, steadying herself by the table, ‘I am not going to the races to-day.’

      He held out his hand, and she could not well refuse to take it, before Leone; its touch was quiet and respectful, and only lasted an instant, but it was even colder than her own.

      ‘And this is your son,’ he said, in a rather muffled voice, and he shook hands with the lad. ‘I’m glad to see you,’ he said. ‘I knew your mother long before you were born, and we were good friends. But I have been away all these years. That is the reason why you have never seen me.’

      ‘I understand,’ Leone answered. ‘Where have you been?’

      Castiglione smiled at the direct question and the unhesitating tone.

      ‘I have been in many cities. I am a soldier, and have to go where I am sent.’

      At this intelligence Leone felt sure that he had found a new friend. He looked upon all soldiers as his friends, from the poor little infantryman in his long grey woollen coat to the King when he appeared in uniform. He at once laid his hand on Castiglione’s arm and looked up into his face.

      ‘Are you a bersagliere?’ the boy asked.

      Maria still leant against the table, and as she watched the two, the man and the boy, and saw their bright blue eyes and their short and thick brown hair, the room began to move, as if it were going slowly round her. She had never fainted in her life, but she realised that unless she made a great effort she must certainly faint now. She