Rafael was speechless; but Edith took the olive wreath from the hamper with exclamations of delight.
"Where will you have it?" she asked the chauffeur, "on your head or your wheel?"
"It belongs to the car triumphal," he answered as they turned and moved cautiously through the street-car tracks of modern Rome.
"There could never have been such a record run made by your kings and emperors of olden times," said the girl proudly to Rafael.
But he was too happy with his thoughts to make any reply, and Edith turned her attention to the conversation between her mother and the chauffeur.
"To the Continental Hotel," Mrs. Sprague was saying, and all too soon they had crossed the city, and were welcomed and given rooms in the hotel. The chauffeur bade them good-bye, and their Marathon run was a thing of the past.