did. She felt convinced that some shadow lay in his past, and that the

ready jest and the fluent laugh only hid a wound which he was too proud to permit the world to gape at.

This was the first phase of their relation; the second began during the second week of their Florentine life. She became conscious that his presence at the villa contributed not only to the enjoyment of Lady Despard and the rest, but to hers!

In an indescribable way he seemed to know exactly what was wanted at any given moment, and to supply it, and his thoughtfulness, strangely enough, always appeared to save trouble to Doris.

From the first day of her coming to Lady Despard, she had undertaken the arrangement of the flowers in the various rooms, and she continued to do so in Florence as in London. The head gardener was accustomed to send up huge baskets of flowers each morning, which Doris would set out and arrange in the various vases and bowls. It was a long task, and one morning he had entered the salon and found her in the midst of it, looking rather pale and tired, for the room was hot and close with the almost overpowering perfume.

“That is a serious business,” he said, in his quiet fashion.

“Isn’t it?” she assented, with a smile.

He said nothing more, and passed out; but the next morning Doris found the flowers spread out on a table, under an awning, in a shady part of the terrace.

“Why, how thoughtful of the gardener!” she said to Lady Despard’s maid, who stood near.

“Oh, but it wasn’t the gardener, miss,” said the girl. “It was Mr. Percy who brought the table out here; he did it himself, and put the awning up.”

“It was very kind of him,” said Doris, and when he came in to breakfast she thanked him.

He bowed, slightly.

“It is cooler out there,” he said, simply, and turned to speak to Lady Despard at once.

A few evenings afterward a discussion arose respecting a book that had suddenly leaped into popular favor.

“What do you think of it, Miss Marlowe?” inquired an old Italian nobleman, whose breast sparkled with orders.

“I haven’t read it, count,” said Doris.

Instantly there was an inquiry for the book, but it appeared that no one possessed a copy.

“Oh, you must read it! I’ll send to London for a copy,” said the count.

An hour afterward some one wanted a song from Percy Levant, but he was nowhere to be found, but presently one of the young men, of whom there were always more than a sufficient quantity at the villa, came in with a:

“I say, Lady Despard, if Mr. Levant doesn’t mind, he’ll lose that jolly voice of his! I’ve just met him in the hall, wet through; it’s raining cats and dogs, you know! Can’t make out where on earth he’s been, don’t you know!”

A little later, Percy Levant sauntered into the room, and Doris saw him laughing and talking with one and another on his way to the piano, and she thought the lad must have been mistaken; but, when all had gone, and she was going upstairs, he came to her, with something in his hand.

“There is the book they were talking about,” he said. “I fancy it isn’t worth the fuss they are making about it.”

“Where did you get it?” said Doris.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I was lucky enough to find a copy in the town,” he replied.

“Then it was for that you went out and got wet!” she exclaimed. “It was very kind, but--was it worth while, Mr. Levant?”

“I thought so, and think so still, but I may be mistaken,” he retorted, with his peculiar, half-cynical smile. “Good-night,” and he moved away, as if the incident were done with.

Gradually she began to realize that in any difficulty he was always at her side. A big picnic was to be arranged, and Lady Despard, who had got accustomed to leaving everything to Doris, had done so on this occasion, and Doris was up early in the morning to give the necessary orders. She found that all the preparations had been made. Mr. Percy Levant had interviewed the major domo, and the thing was done.

When Doris thanked him, he smiled, and courteously cut her short.

“I don’t deserve any thanks,” he said. “You see, my Italian is not so good as yours, and I was anxious to practice it with the major domo, that’s all. We are all moved by selfish motives, Miss Marlowe.”

“Not all,” said Doris. “Not Mr. Percy Levant.”

He started slightly, and fixed his brilliant eyes on her for a second; then, with a laugh, said:

“Yes, even Mr. Percy Levant.”

Twenty times a day she found him coming to her assistance, but always in the same way, always with the same unobtrusiveness, which was almost coldness, but which was very welcome to Doris, contrasted with the fervent, accentuated attention of the rest of the men.

This evening, as she sat beside the hammock, looking at the stars, which were beginning to peep out from the midst of the deep blue of the sky, and thinking of the past, she was conscious, in a half-troubled way, of recalling one of the innumerable services Percy Levant had rendered her, and she started when Lady Despard said, in her sleepy fashion:

“I wonder where Mr. Levant is? Has he gone to the hotel? I haven’t seen him all the evening. How one misses him, doesn’t one?”

“Yes,” said Doris. “That is our tribute to his amiability.”

Lady Despard laughed.

“He is quite the bright particular star of our group,” she said. “Some of our fair Florentine friends are almost mad about him. I shouldn’t wonder if he were caught and chained before we leave.”

“Yes?” said Doris.

Lady Despard leaned over the hammock and regarded her with a lazy smile.

“What a cold little ‘yes,’” she said. “I really believe you are the only woman here who doesn’t admire him.”

“But I do admire him,” said Doris, smiling in return. “I think he is the handsomest man I ever saw----” She stopped and picked up the book, for unnoticed by Lady Despard he had come up and stood beside the hammock.

“May one inquire the subject of Miss Marlowe’s encomium?” he asked, and he looked from one to the other with his usual smile, but Doris, glancing up at him, saw, or fancied she saw, the shadow of the darkness which she, and she alone, had discovered his face could wear.

“Oh, no one you know,” said Lady Despard. “May one ask where you have been all this long while?”

“All this long while! A few hours! What a testimony to one’s worth!” he said, as lightly as before, but his eyes, as they rested on Doris’ pensive face, were grave and intent. “I have been wandering in the woods, listening to the birds.”

“While we have been dying to listen to you,” said Lady Despard, with mock reproach. “We have missed you terribly, haven’t we, Doris?”

“Miss Marlowe is halting between truth and politeness,” he said, as Doris remained silent. “I will spare her a reply.”

“We’ve had no music to speak of,” said Lady Despard. “Won’t you sing us something now? Shall we go into the house?”

“No, no,” he said, almost abruptly. “Who would exchange this”--and he waved his hand--“for four walls? What shall I sing to you? Let me think.”

He thought for a moment, then he began to sing.

Doris never heard his voice, even in the crowded saloon, without feeling a thrill run through her, but to-night, although he sang in so low a tone that it seemed scarcely more than a whisper, the melody stirred her to her depths, and brought the tears to her eyes.

“That is beautiful,” said Lady Despard, with a little sigh. “We won’t spoil it by asking for another. Come, Doris, dear. Will you come in, Mr. Levant?”

“No, thanks,” he said, slowly. “I’ll say good-night now.”

He did not offer to shake hands, and the two ladies left him and went toward the house. As they were ascending the steps, Lady Despard stopped, and uttered an exclamation:

“Oh, my bracelet!”

“What is it? Have you lost it?” inquired Doris.

“Yes; I must have dropped it while I was in the hammock! I’ll go back----”

“No; I’ll go!” said Doris, and she ran back.

She had almost reached the spot where they had been sitting, when, with a start, she saw in the starlight, a man lying full length on the grass, with his face hidden on his arm. It was Percy Levant. He sprang up at the sound of her footsteps, and confronted her, and Doris saw that his face was pale and haggard, so different, indeed, to its usual bright and careless expression, that she felt a shock of distress and almost fear.

“Mr. Levant!” she said, falteringly; then she recovered herself. “I have come back for Lady Despard’s bracelet,” stooping down and looking about her, to give him time.

“It is here,” he said, picking it up.

“Thanks!” she said. “Good-night!”

“Wait! Will you wait a moment?” he asked, and his voice, usually so soft and musical, sounded hoarse and strained.

Doris stood, silent and downcast, and waited for him to go on.