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His dark, handsome
face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.
"Practically."
"One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home," said
Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.
"For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust
that neither of you was at all--that it was not in your immediate
proximity?"
Of the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least
remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable
people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the
subject strangely pure.
"He died by the fountain, I believe," was her reply.
"And you and your friend--"
"Were over at the Loggia."
"That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the
disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press-- This man is
a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well,
and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views."
Surely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy--in the
eternal league of Italy with youth.


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