The Roystons approached Rome by easy stages along the Riviera, and as their movements were but outlined even to themselves, they suffered their approach to remain unheralded. Paul Dessart, since his talk with Marcia, had taken a little dip into the future, with the result that he had to swallow any hurt feelings he might possess and pay dutiful court to his relatives. The rewards of such a course were evident.
One sunny morning early in April (he had been right in his forecast of the time: Palm Sunday a week ahead) a carriage drew up before the door of his studio, and Mrs. Royston and the Misses Royston alighted, squabbled with the driver over the fare, and told him he need not wait. They rang the bell, and during the pause that followed stood upon the door-step, scanning the neighbourhood. It was one of the narrow, streets between the Corso and the river; a street of many colours and many smells, with party-coloured washings fluttering from the windows, with pretty tumble-haired children in gold ear-rings and shockingly clothing underfoot. The house itself presented a blank face of peeling stucco to the street, with nothing but the heavily barred windows below and an cornice four stories up to suggest that it had once been a palace and a stronghold.
Mrs. Royston turned from her of the street to ring the bell again. There was, this time, a suggestion of in her touch. A second wait, and the door 61 was finally opened by one of the fantastic little shepherd models, who haunt the Spanish steps. He took off his hat with a polite ‘Permesso, signore,’ as he up the stairs ahead of them to point the way and open the door at the top. They arrived at the end of the five flights somewhat short of breath, and were into a swept and workroom, where Paul, in a white blouse, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, was immersed in a large canvas, almost too to look up. He received his relatives with an air of delighted surprise, stood quite still while his aunt implanted a kiss upon his cheek, and after a glance at his cousins, kissed them of his own accord.
Mrs. Royston sat down and surveyed the room. It was workmanlike, and had been so for a week. Visibly impressed, she transferred her gaze to her nephew.
‘Paul, you are improved,’ she said at length.
‘My dear aunt, I am five years older than I was five years ago.’
‘Well,’ with a sigh of relief, ‘I actually believe you are!’
‘Paul, I had no idea you were such a desirable cousin,’ was Margaret’s frank comment, as she returned from an inspection of the room to a reinspection of him. ‘Eleanor said you wore velveteen trousers. You don’t, do you?’
‘Never had a pair of puffed velveteen trousers in my life.’
‘Oh, yes, you did!’ said Eleanor. ‘You can’t fib down the past that way. Mamma and I met you in the Luxembourg gardens in broad daylight wearing puffed blue velveteen trousers, with a bottle of wine in one pocket and a loaf of bread in the other.’
‘Let the dead past bury its dead!’ he pleaded. ‘I go to an English tailor on the Corso now.’
‘Marcia Copley wrote that she was very much pleased with you, but she didn’t tell us how good-looking you were,’ said Margaret, still frank.
Paul reddened a trifle as he the charge with a laughing gesture.
‘Don’t you think Miss Copley’s nice?’ pursued Margaret. ‘You’d better think so,’ she added, ‘for she’s one of our best friends.’
Paul reddened still more, as he replied indifferently that Miss Copley appeared very nice. He hadn’t seen much of her, of course.
‘I hope,’ said his aunt, ‘that you have been polite.’
‘My dear aunt,’ he objected patiently, ‘I really don’t go out of my way to be impolite to people,’ and he took the Baedeker from her hand and sat down beside her. ‘What places do you want to see first?’ he inquired.
They were soon deep in computations of the galleries, ruins, and churches that should be visited in conjunction, and half an hour later, Paul and Margaret in one carriage, with Mrs. Royston and Eleanor in a second, were toward the Colosseum; while Paul was reflecting that the path of duty need not of necessity be a one.
During the next week or so Vivalanti saw little more of Marcia than of her uncle. She spent the greater part of her time in Rome, visiting galleries and churches, with studio teas and other Lenten to lighten the rigour of sight-seeing. Paul Dessart proved himself an cicerone, and his devotion to duty was not unrewarded; the dim crypts and , the deep-embrasured windows of galleries and palaces afforded many chances for stolen of conversation. And Paul was not one to waste his opportunities. The spring was ideal; Rome was flooded with sunshine and flowers and the Italian joy of being alive. The troubles of Italy’s , which Mr. Copley found so absorbing, received, during these days, little consideration from his niece. Marcia was too busy living her own life to have eyes for any but happy people. She looked at Italy through rose-coloured glasses, and Italy, in the spring sunshine, smiled back sympathetically.
One morning an accident happened at the villa, and though it may not seem important to the world in general, still, as events turned out, it proved to be the upon which destiny turned. Gerald fell over the parapet, landing eight feet below—butter-side down—with a bleeding nose and a broken front tooth. He could not claim this time that Marietta had pushed him over, as it was clearly proven that Marietta, at the moment, was sitting in the scullery , smiling at François. In consequence Marietta received her wages, a ticket to Rome, and fifty lire to dry her tears. A new nurse was hastily summoned from Castel Vivalanti. She was a niece of Domenic, the , and had served in the household of Prince Barberini at Palestrina, which was recommendation enough.
As to the broken tooth, it was a first tooth and shaky at that. Most people would have themselves with the reflection that the matter would right itself in the course of nature. But Mrs. Copley, who perhaps had a tendency to be over-solicitous on a question involving her son’s health or beauty, decided that Gerald must go to the dentist’s. Gerald , and Marcia, who had had no thought of going into Rome that afternoon, offered to accompany the party, for the sake—she said—of keeping up his courage in the train. As they were preparing to start, she informed Mrs. Copley that she thought she would stay with the Roystons all night, since they had planned to visit the by moonlight some evening, and this appeared a convenient time. In the Roman station she abandoned Gerald to his fate, and drove to the Hôtel de Londres et Paris.
She found the ladies just sitting down to their midday breakfast and delighted to see her. It developed, however, that they had an unbreakable engagement for the evening, and the plan of visiting the Forum was accordingly out of the question.
‘No matter,’ said Marcia, drawing off her gloves; ‘I can come in some other day; it’s always moonlight in Rome’; and they settled themselves to discussing plans for the afternoon. The hotel porter had given Margaret a permesso for the royal palace and stables, and being interested in the domestic arrangements of kings, she was that they visit the Quirinal. But Mrs. Royston, who was on first exhausting the heavier attractions set in Baedeker, declared for the Lateran museum. The matter was still unsettled when they rose from the table and were presented with the cards of Paul Dessart and M. Adolphe B............