The Wheat Princess

n a kindly light) beautiful; the other a girl emphatically young, her youth riding triumphant over other qualities which in a few years would

e first secretary of the American Embassy-broke off in the midd

you,' the grey-haired consul-gene

containing a half-puzzled, half-questioning light, as though she had caught the words but not the meaning. Her vague expression changed to one of rec

turned to scrutinize the American girl-she was American to the most casual observer, from th

tone. 'Miss Marcia Copley, the daughter of the American Whea

rom this new point of view. 'She isn't bad-looking,' was his comment. 'The Wheat Princess!' He repeated t

ew, with the intimation that it was noth

s the lady

the consul-gene

Copley. They live in th

ing of the sort, isn't he? I've seen him at the meets. I say, you know,' he added, with an appreciative

burnished brown exactly the colour of her hair; every little accessory of her dress was unobtrusively fastidious. Her whole bearing, her easy social grace, spoke of a past in which the

audacity to face people. I should think that ever

ong before Willard Copley corn

some one ventured, 'Howard Copley is

lanthropists have a way of taking back with the

o the strictures on the niece, but in response to the imp

and his brother have had nothing to do with each other for the last ten years.

carried the reputation of being a warm partizan on the one or two subjects which engaged his e

ial routine of his life, but by the simple device of coming late and leaving early he escaped as much of their irksomeness as possible. Aside from being secretary of the Embassy, Sybert was a nephew of the amb

flattering show of cordiality from the aunt, though with but a fleeting nod from the

ur husband?'

r eyebrows in a pi

pic venture had been the 'Anti-Begging Society.' Bread-tickets had been introduced, the beggars were

y murmured their

?' Mrs. Copley asked. 'I thought that Mr.

the door, reflected the questi

, Mr. Dessart and I are old friends. We used to know each other in Pit

ted with the usual artist attributes-a velveteen jacket, a flowing necktie, and rather long light-brown hair which constantly got into his eyes, causing

extend a cordial hand to Melville, while to the secretary she tossed a markedly careless, 'Good afternoon, Mr. Sybert.' If Miss Marcia's offhand manner conveyed somethi

oving out to a villa for the spring?'

ing of it, but it

he first one who suggested a villa, but now that exactly the right o

arcia,' said Melville. 'You

f Aunt Katherine and I are pleased--' She broke

'Poor Uncle Howa

iends, left Miss Copley for the moment to a tête à tête with Sybert. He maintained his side of the conversation

a to be, Miss Marcia-a

an Frascati; at

l Viva

hills between Pale

f climbing the hill on a very hot day. I was merely ex

moving into the hills is to escape from visitors, and if w

scarcely a hospitable speech, and a smile of am

with slightly exaggerated sweetness: 'Of course I don't mean you, Mr. S

with the new arrivals-a lady whose name Miss Copley did not catch, but who was presented with the explanatory remark, 'she writes,' and several you

it is the most complete villa in Italy. It has a laurel walk and an ilex

hey were extinct-that the railroads and tour

of! He hoarded his wheat while the peasants were starving, and they murdered him two hundred years ago.' She re

s whether it was ignorance or mere bravado that had tempted her into repeating just that particular tale. It was a subject which Miss Copley might have been expected

, Miss Copley. The old fe

g gesture, and the woman who wrote s

the foreigners are making the Italians too modern. Why

an impressioni

nists?' a young man asked in somewhat hal

r ways. Miss Copley, allow me to present Monsieur Benoit, the last Prix de Rome-

the Villa Medici, without having to

has ghosts of many kinds-ghosts of dead

ition might be too illusive for even an

ainted with them than with anything else

d a Prix de Rome,' smil

e of the room, the girl nodded to the group and withdrew. T

ley read the papers?'

rt rejoined with a laugh as he

panion was a vivacious little woman approaching middle age; and though she spoke perfect English, she pronounced her words with a precision which suggested a foreign birth. Her conversation was diverting; it gave evidence of a vast amount of worldly wisdom as well as a wide acquaintance with other

nd she presently drew them toward her, with the remark, 'We

no Temple of Vesta set off by a line of scarlet seminarists. One of the chalk drawings was of an old chestnut woman crouched over her charcoal fire; another was of the octroi officer under the tall arch of the San Giovanni gate, prodding the contents of a donkey-cart with his steel rod. There were corne

od,' she said as she l

y are so good that they ought to

o you

s at everybody's service. The workers have no time to be polite. However,' she finished, 'it is not for you and me t

andle-light.' Her eyes wandered about the big room, with its furnishings of threadbare tapestry and antique carved chairs. The heavy curtains had been partly draw

e, presently joined them; and the talk drifted into Roman politics-a subject conce

he Englishman; 'but I soon saw that I should have to cho

ow who's premier

been in Rome two months, and I am an authority on the Triple Alliance and t

he Embassy, and one can absorb politics there through one's skin. But I warn you, it i

tor. 'I was talking to a fellow this afternoon, na

w him. What

hing, in t

I'll promise not to tell. He's one of

stulated a trifle sheepishly. 'The only thing I have ag

h a certain sense

she repeated cordially. 'My

out all the Roman politics that are good for him. If

p?' she

a touch of malice. Laurence Sybert, apparently, w

in it than he does in whether or not Tammany runs New York. All that Sybert knows anything about or cares anything about is Italian politics, and there are some who th

l an eclectic,' suggested Benoit

other factions besides the Vatican and the Quirinal. There are one or

-' she asked, wi

ybert's long residence in Rome might be reduced to a simpler formula th

aurence Sybert was not a man whom she had ever credited w

I know is that nine or ten years ago, when she was Margarita Carretti, he was openly among her admirer

ieri was also a frequent guest at the palazzo. But Dess

Torrenieri goes the way of all counts? I know you are the authority on gossip, ma

n that he is an anarc

man shrugged his shoulders and spread ou

s. Copley as she joined the group in

ughed her niece-'or i

lly interchangeab

g him an anarchist, Miss M

ith a laugh. 'I'm afraid Mr

a special friend of mine. I can't allow yo

I feel tempted to use some dynamite myself when I see the way this precious go

id Mrs. Copley, rising, 'I fear we must leave. I

settled themselves in the empty places. The woman who wrote listened a moment to the badinage and laughter

art's?' Melvi

e,' she conceded-'though, I vent

do not know Mrs. Copley. Her niece is more likely to

' her husband affirmed. 'Miss Marcia is a young woman who will marry whom she pleas

,' said his wife. '

exactly the man,' he added, in a burst of

amused smile from the ladies

ou are no match-maker. That is a matter you would best leave to the women. As fo

er fish to fry just now,

ght,' said Melvi

e an interesting matter to watch,' she announced; '