The idea had long fixed itself in CornÉlie’s mind that she must speak to Urania Hope; and one morning she sent her a note asking for an appointment that afternoon. Miss Hope wrote back assenting; and at five o’clock CornÉlie found her at home in her handsome and expensive sitting-room at Belloni’s: many lights, many flowers; Urania hammering on the piano in an indoor gown of Venetian lace; the table decked with a rich tea, with cut bread-and-butter, cakes and sweets. CornÉlie had said that she wanted to see Miss Hope alone, on a matter of importance, and at once asked if she would be alone, feeling a doubt of it, now that Urania was receiving her so formally. But Urania reassured her: she had said that she was at home to no one but Mrs. de Retz and was very curious to know what CornÉlie had come to talk about. CornÉlie reminded Urania of her former warning and, when Urania laughed, she took her hand and looked at her with such serious eyes that she made an impression of the American girl’s frivolous nature and Urania became puzzled. Urania now suddenly thought it very momentous—a secret, an intrigue, a danger, in Rome!—and they whispered together. And CornÉlie, no longer feeling anxious amid this increasing intimacy, confessed to Urania what she had heard through the half-open door: the marchesa’s machinations with her nephew, whom she was absolutely bent on marrying to a rich heiress at the behest of the prince’s father, who seemed to have promised her so much for putting the match through. Then she spoke of Miss Taylor’s conversion, effected by Rudyard: Rudyard, who did not seem able to achieve his purpose with Urania, failing to obtain a hold on her confiding, but frivolous, butterfly nature, and who, as CornÉlie suspected, had for that reason incurred the disfavour of his ecclesiastical superiors and vanished without settling his debt to the marchesa. His place appeared to have been taken by the two monsignori, who looked more dignified and worldly and displayed great unctuousness, were more lavish in smiles. And Urania, staring at this danger, at these pit-falls under her feet which CornÉlie had suddenly revealed to her, now became really frightened, turned pale and promised to be on her guard. Really she would have liked to tell her maid to pack up at once, so that they might leave Rome as soon as possible, for another town, another pension, one with lots of titled people: she adored titles! And CornÉlie, seeing that she had made an impression, continued, spoke of herself, spoke of marriage in general, said that she had written a pamphlet against marriage and on The Social Position of Divorced Women. And she spoke of the suffering which she had been through and of the feminist movement in Holland. And, once in the vein, she abandoned all restraint and talked more and more emphatically, until Urania thought her exceedingly clever, a very clever girl, to be able to argue and write like that on a ques-tion brÛ-lante, laying a fine stress on the first syllables of the French words. She admitted that she would like to have the vote and, as she said this, spread out the long train of her lace tea-gown. CornÉlie spoke of the injustice of the law which leaves the wife nothing, takes everything from her and forces her entirely into the husband’s power; and Urania agreed with her and passed the little dish of chocolate-creams. And to the accompaniment of a second cup of tea they talked excitedly, both speaking at once, neither listening to what the other was saying; and Urania said that it was a shame. From the general discussion they relapsed to the consideration of their particular interests: CornÉlie depicted the character of her husband, unable, in the coarseness of his nature, to understand a woman or to consent that a woman should stand beside him and not beneath him. And she once more returned to the Jesuits, to the danger of Rome for rich girls travelling alone, to that virago of a marchesa and to the prince, that titled bait which the Jesuits flung to win a soul and to improve the finances of an impoverished Italian house which had remained faithful to the Pope and refused to serve the king. And both of them were so vehement and excited that they did not hear the knock and looked up only when the door slowly opened. They started, glanced round and both turned pale when they saw the Prince of Forte-Braccio enter the room. He apologized with a smile, said that he had seen a light in Miss Urania’s sitting-room, that the porter had told him she was engaged, but that he had ventured to disobey her orders. And he sat down; and, in spite of all that they had been saying, Urania thought it delightful to have the prince sitting there and accepting a cup of tea at her hands and graciously consenting to eat a piece of cake.

And Urania showed her album of coats of arms—the prince had already contributed an impression of his—and next the album with patterns of the queen’s ball-dresses. Then the prince laughed and felt in his pocket for an envelope; he opened it and carefully produced a cutting of blue brocade embroidered with silver and seed-pearls.

“What is it?” asked Urania, in ecstasy.

And he said that he had brought her a pattern of her majesty’s last dress; his cousin—not a Black, like himself, but a White, belonging not to the papal but to the court party and a lady-in-waiting to the queen—had procured this cutting for him for Urania’s album. Urania would see it herself: the queen would wear the dress at next week’s court ball. He was not going, he did not even go to his cousin’s officially, not to her parties; but he saw her sometimes, because of the family relationship, out of friendship. And he begged Urania not to give him away: it might injure him in his career—“What career?” CornÉlie wondered to herself—if people knew that he saw much of his cousin; but he had called on her pretty often lately, for Urania’s sake, to get her that pattern.

And Urania was so grateful that she forgot all about the social position of girls and women, married or unmarried, and would gladly have sacrificed her right to the franchise for such a charming Italian prince. CornÉlie became vexed, rose, bowed coldly to the prince and drew Urania with her to the door:

“Don’t forget what we have been saying,” she warned her. “Be on your guard.”

And she saw the prince look at her sarcastically, as they whispered together, suspecting that she was talking about him, but proud of the power of his personality and his title and his attentions over the daughter of an American stockinet-manufacturer.