be harried. There was a curious breach of silence between them, which frightened him.

They lay rather late, then he rang for breakfast. She wanted to be able to go straight downstairs and away from the place, when she got up. She was happy in this room, but the thought of the publicity of the hall downstairs rather troubled her.

A young Italian, a Sicilian, dark and slightly pock-marked, buttoned up in a sort of grey tunic, appeared with the tray.

His face had an almost African imperturbability, impassive, incomprehensible.

“One might be in Italy,” Skrebensky said to him, genially. A vacant look, almost like fear, came on the fellow's face. He did not understand.

“This is like Italy,”