we must pass. But it was there; she knew
it was there. And this conviction was,
that she had given all and gained nothing
—that she had been duped and defrauded.

She did not believe that what she aimed
at would, if obtained, have turned to dust
and ashes. And she knew she had not got
what she aimed at. The horrible sense of
the irrevocableness of the past came over
her. The tears brimmed over and ran down
her cheeks, and they brought no solace.
They only humiliated, and made her angry.

A maid, going into one of the upper
rooms to close the shutters for the night,
looked out and saw "miladi," leaning, with
folded arms, against a column at the end of
the loggia, and apparently absorbed in
watching the fire-flies.

It was an odd idea to stand there alone,
when she might chat, and lounge on a
sofa, and drink iced lemonade in the salon!
But gentlefolks were odd: especially
foreign gentlefolks. And Beppina went
down to the servants' quarters, not ill
contented with her own lot, and prepared
to discuss her master and mistress, and to
thank her stars—with a side glance at
Ansano, the footman—that she was not tied
to that "vecchio brontolone," that grumbling
old fellow, as she irreverently styled
Sir John Gale.

Meanwhile Veronica, who never yielded
herself, long, to any painful mental impression,
returned to the house, and entered
the saloon where Sir John and the prince
were engaged over their game at picquet.

The room was brilliantly lighted, and
dazzled her, coming from without. She
felt more angry with her tears than ever,
on becoming suddenly aware, as she
entered the saloon, that her eyelids were
swollen, and her eyes weak, and that they
must be red and ugly.

"Oh," she cried, stopping short, and
clasping her hands before her face, "What
a glare! It blinds me!"

Sir John was too intent on his game to
regard her. Cesare de' Barletti looked up,
and fell instantly into a trance of admiration
—for a costly diamond that glittered
on Veronica's slender finger. He played a
wrong card (as he afterwards confessed, an
imbecile card!) and was vanquished.

Sir John was pleased. So was Veronica.
The former attributed the victory to his
own skill, on which—as he played very
ill—he valued himself. The latter had
no doubt that her presence had agitated
de' Barletti into forgetting his game.
Barletti himself was well satisfied to have put
his host into good humour. The stakes,
for which they played, were very trifling,
and he thought the small sum he had lost
not ill invested.

"Will you have your revenge, prince?"
asked Sir John, throwing himself back in
his chair with a complacent smile.

Barletti shook his head doubtfully.

"Aha! You show the white feather?
Positively I did not think I should be able
to tell one card from another. It is so
long since I have played. You ought to
have beaten me, you really ought. Ha,
ha, ha!"

Veronica seated herself on a couch near
the window. Her white dress was soft
and flowing, and her black hair shone in
its rich ripples as she leaned her head against
the dark velvet couch. Diamonds glittered
on her neck and arms and hands: and
trembled in her ears. There was no speck
of colour about her dress, and its pure
whiteness enhanced the rich glow of her
brunette complexion. She still shaded her
eyes with one hand, complaining of the
light.

Sir John, having finished his game, was
full of solicitude for her. Should he have
the candles removed to another part of
the room? Would she like a screen?
Had she caught cold, or what was it? Her
eyes were usually so strong! Being now
the central object of attraction, her spirits
rose buoyantly. She coquetted and
commanded, and made Sir John move and re-
move the wax tapers a dozen times before
their position was satisfactory to her. At
last he got tired, and rang for Paul to carry
them away and bring a shaded lamp instead.
Barletti looked on admiringly, and when, on
the lamp being carried in, there appeared
in its wake a tray with galantine, and
chicken, and wine, and sweets (these
English are such eaters!) his spirits rose too,
and they were all three quite brilliant over
the little impromptu supper. The
conversation was carried on in French, Sir
John not being able to speak Italian
fluently. But suddenly Veronica addressed
Barletti in Italian, and intensely enjoyed
his admiring surprise at the purity of her
accent.

"How admirably miladi speaks Italian!"
he exclaimed, with enthusiasm.

"My mother was an Italian," said
Veronica.

"Was she?" asked Sir John, carelessly.
"Tiens! I never knew that. Or—stay—oh
yes to be sure! I think I remember hearing
it mentioned."