The Point of View | Page 6

as to the controlling of my actions
and wishes. We must all submit to the laws of our country, to do so is
the only way to obtain complete personal freedom."
"That sounds like a paradox," said Stella.
"I have just been thinking," he went on, without noticing the
interruption, "it would be most agreeable to take a drive in my

automobile late this after-noon, when your guardians have returned and
are resting. If you feel you would care to come I will wait in this hall
from five to six. You need not take the least notice of me, you can walk
past, out of the hotel, then turn to the left, and there in the square,
where there are a few trees, you will see a large blue motor waiting.
You will get straight in, and I will come and join you. Not anyone will
see or notice you--because of the trees, one cannot observe from the
windows. My chauffeur will be prepared, and I will return you safely to
the same place in an hour."
Stella's brown eyes grew larger and larger. Some magnetic spell
seemed to be dominating her, the idea was preposterous, and yet to
agree to it was the strongest temptation she had ever had in all her life.
She was filled with a wild longing to live, to do what she pleased, to be
free to enjoy this excitement before her wings should be clipped, and
her outlook all gray and humdrum.
"I do not know if they will rest--I cannot say--I--" she blurted out
tremblingly.
The stranger had put down the Times, and was gazing into her face
with a look almost of tenderness.
"There is no need to answer now," he said softly. "If fate means us to
be happy, she will arrange it--I think you will come."
Miss Rawson started to her feet, and absently put her letter to her
fiance--which contained merely the sentence that they had arrived in
Rome--into its envelope and fastened it up.
"I must go now--good-bye," she said.
"It is not good-bye," the Russian answered gravely. "By six o'clock, we
shall be driving in the Borghese Gardens and hearing the nightingales
sing."
As Stella walked to the lift with a tumultuously beating heart, she asked
herself what all this could possibly mean, and why she was not

angry--and why this stranger--whose appearance outraged all her ideas
as to what an English gentleman should look like-- had yet the power to
fascinate her completely. Of course, she would not go for a drive with
him--and yet, what would be the harm? After September she would
never have a chance like this again. There would be only Eustace
Medlicott and parish duties-- yes--if fate made it possible, she would
go!
And she went on to her room with exhilarating sense of adventure
coursing through her veins.
"I have found out the name of the peculiar-looking foreigner who sat
near us last night," Canon Ebley said, as they drove to the Lateran in a
little Roman Victoria, "it is Count Roumovski; I asked the hall
porter--reprehensible curiosity I fear you will think, my dear Caroline,
but there is something unaccountably interesting about him, as you
must admit, although you disapprove of his appearance."
"I think it is quite dreadful," Mrs. Ebley sniffed, "and I hear from
Martha that he has no less than two valets, and a suite of princely
rooms and motor cars, and the whole passage on the second floor is
filled with his trunks."
Martha had been Mrs. Ebley's maid for twenty-five years, and as Stella
well knew was fairly accurate in her recounting of the information she
picked up. This luridly extravagant picture, however, did not appal her.
And she found herself constantly dwelling upon it and the stranger all
the time she followed her relations about in the gorgeous church.
Fate did not seem to be going to smile upon the drive project,
however--for Mrs. Ebley, far from appearing tired, actually proposed
tea in the hall when they got in--and there sat for at least half an hour,
while Stella saw Count Roumovski come in and sit down and leisurely
begin a cigarette, as he glanced at an Italian paper. He was so intensely
still, always peace seemed to breathe from his atmosphere, but the very
sight of him appeared to exasperate the Aunt Caroline more and more.
"I wonder that man is not ashamed to be seen in a respectable place,"

she snapped, "with his long hair and his bracelet--such effeminacy is
perfectly disgusting, Erasmus."
"I really cannot help it, my dear," Canon Ebley replied, irritably, "and I
rather like his face."
"Erasmus!" was all Mrs. Ebley could say, and prepared to return to her
room. Dinner would be at a quarter to eight, she