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; '