CornÉlie now saw no one except Duco. Mrs. van der Staal had broken with her and would not allow her daughters to have any further intercourse with her. A coolness had arisen even between the mother and the son. CornÉlie saw no one now except Duco and, at times, Urania Hope. The American girl came to her pretty often and told her about Belloni’s, where the people talked about CornÉlie and Duco and commented on their relations. Urania was glad to think herself above that hotel gossip, but still she wanted to warn CornÉlie. Her words displayed a simple spontaneity of friendship that appealed to CornÉlie. When CornÉlie, however, asked after the prince, she became silent and confused and evidently did not wish to say much. Then, after the court ball, at which the queen had really worn the dress embroidered with seed-pearls, Urania came and looked CornÉlie up again and admitted, over a cup of tea, that she had that morning promised to go and see the prince at his own place. She said this quite simply, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. CornÉlie was horrified and asked her how she could have promised such a thing.

“Why not?” Urania replied. “What is there in it? I receive his visits. If he asks me to come and see his rooms—he lives in the Palazzo Ruspoli and wants to show me his pictures and miniatures and old lace—why should I refuse to go? Why should I make a fuss about it? I am above any such narrow-mindedness. We American girls go about freely with our men friends. And what about yourself? You go for walks with Mr. van der Staal, you lunch with him, you go for trips with him, you go to his studio....”

“I have been married,” said CornÉlie. “I am responsible to no one. You have your parents. What you are thinking of doing is imprudent and high-handed. Tell me, does the prince think of ... marrying you?”

“If I become a Catholic.”

“And ...?”

“I think ... I shall. I have written to Chicago,” she said, hesitatingly.

She closed her beautiful eyes for a second and went pale, because the title of princess and duchess flashed before her sight.

“Only ...” she began.

“Only what?”

“I sha’n’t have a cheerful life. The prince belongs to the Blacks. They are always in mourning because of the Pope. They have hardly anything in their set: no dances, no parties. If we got married, I should like him to come to America with me. Their home in the Abruzzi is a lonely, tumbledown castle. His father is a very proud, stand-offish, silent person. I have been told so by ever so many people. What am I to do, CornÉlie? I’m very fond of Gilio: his name is Virgilio. And then, you know, the title is an old Italian title: Principe di Forte-Braccio, Duca di San Stefano.... But then, you see, that’s all there is to it. San Stefano is a hole. That’s where his papa lives. They sell wine and live on that. And olive-oil; but they don’t make any money. My father manufactures stockinet; but he has grown rich on it. They haven’t many family-jewels. I have made enquiries.... His cousin, the Contessa di Rosavilla, the lady in waiting to the queen, is nice ... but we shouldn’t see her officially. I shouldn’t be able to go anywhere. It does strike me as rather boring.”

CornÉlie spoke vehemently, blazed out and repeated her phrases: against marriage in general and now against this marriage in particular, merely for the sake of a title. Urania assented: it was merely for the title; but then there was Gilio too, of course: he was so nice and she was fond of him. But CornÉlie didn’t believe a word of it and told her so straight out. Urania began to cry: she did not know what to do.

“And when were you to go to the prince?”

“This evening.”

“Don’t go.”

“No, no, you’re right, I sha’n’t go.”

“Do you promise me?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Don’t go, Urania.”

“No, I sha’n’t go. You’re a dear girl. You’re quite right: I won’t go. I swear to you I won’t.”