"Natural!" Abbott dropped his mahl-stick.

"It is Vesuv', is it not, on a cloudy day?"

This was too much for Abbott's gravity, and he laughed.

"It was not necessary to spoil a good picture ... on my account," said

Flora, closing the lorgnette with a snap. Her great dark eyes were dreamy

and contemplative like a cat's, and, as every one knows, a cat's eye is

the most observing of all eyes. It is quite in the order of things, since

a cat's attitude toward the world is by need and experience wholly

defensive.

"The Signora is wrong. I did not spoil it on her account. It was past

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helping yesterday. But I shall, however, rechristen it Vesuvius, since it

represents an eruption of temper."

Flora tapped the handle of her parasol with the lorgnette. It was

distinctly a sign of approval. These Americans were never slow-witted. She

swung the parasol to and fro, slowly, like a pendulum.

"It is too bad," she said, her glance roving over the white walls of the

villa.

"It was irrevocably lost," Abbott declared.

"No, no; I do not mean the picture. I am thinking of La Toscana. Her voice

was really superb; and to lose it entirely...!" She waved a sympathetic

hand.

Abbott was about to rise up in vigorous protest. But fate itself chose to

rebuke Flora. From the window came--"Sai cos' ebbe cuore!"--sung as only

Nora could sing it.

The ferrule of Flora Desimone's parasol bit deeply into the clover-turf.




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