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She lived and moved and had her being as part of a great, warm, live picture. If the lady in brown had not passed so quickly, however, she would have seen a something in Mae's face that spoiled her for a peasant, an earnestness in her admiration, a sharp intensity in her joy, that was very different from the languid content of a Southern Italian.
And such a strange thing is the human heart, that it was Norman Mann's face she saw before her constantly, and she found Miss Rae's little twinkling sort of eyes far more haunting than those of her veiled friend. The rich life in Mae's blood was surging in her veins and must be let off in some way.
A great shout of laughter greeted Mae's ear, and a pretty picture met her eyes gaily decked youths and maidens clapping their hands and chattering brightly, while the padrona was just entering the opposite doorway, bearing two flasks of native wine, and some glasses. "'Tis genuine Orvieto," she called out, and this raised another shout. Then she caught sight of Mae and bowed low towards her.
"What is the row now?" he thought. "What a child it is, anyway. She has had the mocoletti fun in her mind since we left America, and now she throws it away. Well, there's no help for it; I'm booked for Miss Rae. I'll get Eric to see if Mae's really ill. I wonder if she's afraid of me, because she cried last night, afraid I took that big tear for more than it was worth.
At that moment the coffee cup, which was on its way back, had reached the middle of the table, where by right it should have been met and guided by the steadier, masculine hand; Norman's hand was there in readiness, but instead of gently removing the cup from Mae's clasp, it folded itself involuntarily about the white, round wrist, as he paused on these last words.
It was music beyond description; those wonderful male voices, the chorus of young boys, and then suddenly, the organ and some one wild falsetto carrying the great Latin soul-laden words up higher. All this while Mae's head was bent low and her heart was a-praying. All this while Bero was on his knees also, but his eyes were on Mae. The music ceased; the prayers were ended.
"I wonder if she is engaged to that superb man; I fancied I had seen him before. Why, Mae, what in the world are you blushing at?" For Mae's face was scarlet. "Why, nothing," replied Mae, redder yet; "nothing at all. What do you mean?" The same thought occurred to Edith and Albert. The officer was Mae's chance acquaintance.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly, regretfully, and bowed and rode away. And so the clinking spurs and yellow moustaches and amorous eyes vanished from Mae's sight. As he rode off he was somewhat sorrowful; but he took a picture from his pocket and looked at it. "She'll be glad to welcome me back again," he said to himself, pleasantly, "and she belongs to my own land.
Mae's hair was tumbled in brown waves that looked as if they couldn't quite make up their minds to curl, much as they wanted to; her eyes shone strangely; and the little scarlet shawl that she had drawn over her head and shoulders was no brighter than her flushed cheeks. She smiled at her brother, but said hurriedly; "Tell me of your plans for to-night. I suppose you and Mr.
"The Signorina is the veriest Italian of us all," cried Lisetta. "She honors our Italy," called Mae's last partner. "Her feet are those of a chamois," said one from the north. "Nay, she flies," replied another. They all spoke in their earnest manner, and the praises, that fall in fulsome flattery in English, were delicate and stimulating as they slid in soft Italian from their full, red lips.
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