Next morning Urania’s maid was showing CornÉlie through a maze of galleries to the garden, where breakfast was to be served, when she met Gilio on the stairs. The maid turned back.

“I still need a guide to find my way,” CornÉlie laughed.

He grunted some reply.

“How did you sleep, prince?”

He gave another grunt.

“Look here, prince, there must be an end of this ill-temper of yours. Do you hear? It’s got to finish. I insist. I won’t have any more sulking to-day; and I hope that you’ll go back to your cheerful, witty style of conversation as soon as possible, for that’s what I like in you.”

He mumbled something.

“Good-bye, prince,” said CornÉlie, curtly.

And she turned to go away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To my room. I shall breakfast in my room.”

“But why?”

“Because I don’t care for you as a host.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Yesterday you insult me. I defend myself, you go on being rude, I at once become as amiable as ever, I give you my hand, I even give you a kiss. At dinner you sulk with me in the most uncivil fashion. You go to bed without bidding me good-night. This morning you meet me without a word of greeting. You grunt, sulk and mumble like a naughty child. Your eyes are blazing with anger, you are yellow with spleen. Really, you’re looking very bad. It doesn’t suit you at all. You are most unpleasant, rough, rude and petty. I have no inclination to breakfast with you in that mood. And I’m going to my room.”

“No,” he implored.

“Yes, I am.”

“No, no!”

“Then be different. Make an effort, don’t think any more about your defeat and be nice to me. You’re behaving as the offended party, whereas it is I who ought to take offence. But I don’t know how to sulk and I am not petty. I can’t behave pettily. I forgive you; do you forgive me too. Say something nice, say something pleasant.”

“I am mad about you.”

“You don’t show it. If you’re mad about me, be pleasant, civil, gay and witty. I demand it of you as my host.”

“I won’t sulk any longer ... but I do love you so! And you struck me!”

“Will you never forget that act of self-defence?”

“No, never!”

“Then good-bye.”

She turned to go.

“No, no, don’t go back. Come to breakfast in the pergola. I apologize, I beg your pardon. I won’t be rude again, I won’t be petty. You are not petty. You are the most wonderful woman I ever met. I worship you.”

“Then worship in silence and amuse me.”

His eyes, his black carbuncle eyes, began to light up again, to laugh; his face lost its wrinkles and cheered up.

“I am too sad to be amusing.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Honestly, I am full of sorrow and suffering....”

“Poor prince!”

“You just won’t believe me. You never take me seriously. I have to be your clown, your buffoon. And I love you and have nothing to hope for. Tell me, mayn’t I hope?”

“Not much.”

“You are inexorable ... and so severe!”

“I have to be severe with you: you are just like a naughty boy.... Oh, I see the pergola! Do you promise to improve?”

“I shall be good.”

“And amusing?”

He heaved a sigh:

“Poor Gilio!” he sighed. “Poor buffoon!”

She laughed. In the pergola were Urania and Bob Hope. The pergola, overgrown with creeping vine and rambler roses hanging in crimson clusters, displayed a row of marble caryatides and hermes—nymphs, satyrs and fauns—whose torsos ended in slender, sculptured pedestals, while their raised hands supported the flat roof of leaves and flowers. In the middle was an open rotunda like an open temple; the circular balustrade was also supported by caryatides; and an ancient sarcophagus had been adapted to serve as a cistern. A table was laid for breakfast in the pergola; and they breakfasted without old Prince Ercole or the marchesa, who broke her fast in her room. It was eight o’clock; a morning coolness was still wafted from the lake; a haze of blue gossamer floated over the hills, in the heart of which, as though surrounded by a gently fluted basin, the lake was sunk like an oval goblet.

“Oh, how beautiful it is here!” cried CornÉlie, delightedly.

Breakfast was a sunny and cheerful meal, after yesterday’s dark and gloomy dinner. Urania talked vivaciously about her albergo, which she was going to visit presently with CornÉlie, Gilio recovered his amiability and Bob ate heartily. And, when Bob went off bicycling, Gilio even accompanied the ladies to the town. They drove at a foot-pace in a landau down the castle road. The sun grew hotter and the little old town lit up, with whitish-grey and creamy-white houses like stone mirrors, in which the sun reflected itself, and little open spaces like walls, into which the sun poured its light. The coachman pulled up outside the partly-finished albergo. They all alighted; the contractor approached ceremoniously; the perspiring masons looked round at the prince and princess. The heat was stifling. Gilio kept on wiping his forehead and sheltered under CornÉlie’s parasol. But Urania was all vivacity and interest; quick and full of energy in her white-piquÉ costume, with her white sailor-hat under her white sun-shade, she tripped along planks, past heaps of bricks and cement and tubs full of mortar, accompanied by her contractor. She made him explain things, proffered advice, disagreed with him at times and pulled a wise face, saying that she did not like certain measurements and refused to accept the contractor’s assurance that she would like the measurements as the building progressed; she shook her head and impressed this and that upon him, all in a quick, none too correct, broken Italian, which she chewed between her teeth. But CornÉlie thought her charming, attractive, every inch the Princess di Forte-Braccio. There was not a doubt about it. While Gilio, fearful of dirtying his light flannel suit and brown shoes with the mortar, remained in the shadow of her parasol, puffing and blowing with the heat and taking no interest whatever, his wife was untiring, did not trouble to think that her white skirt was becoming soiled at the hem and spoke to the contractor with a lively and dignified certainty which compelled respect. Where had the child learnt that? Where had she acquired her powers of assimilation? Where did she get this love for San Stefano, this love for its poor? How had the American girl picked up this talent for filling her new and exalted position so worthily? Gilio thought her admirabile and whispered as much to CornÉlie. He was not blind to her good qualities. He thought Urania splendid, excellent; she always astounded him. No Italian woman of his own set would have been like that. And they liked her. The servants at the castle loved her. Giuseppe would have gone through fire and water for her; that contractor admired her; the masons followed her respectfully with their eyes, because she was so clever and knew so much and was so good to them in their poverty.

“Admirabile!” said Gilio.

But he puffed and blowed. He knew nothing about bricks, beams and measurements and did not understand where Urania had got that technical sense from. She was indefatigable. She went all over the works, while he cast up his eyes to CornÉlie in entreaty. And at last, speaking in English, he begged his wife in Heaven’s name to come away. They went back to the carriage; the contractor took off his hat, the workmen raised their caps with an air of mingled gratitude and independence. And they drove to the cathedral, which CornÉlie wanted to see. Urania showed her round. Gilio asked to be excused and went and sat on the steps of the altar, with his hands hanging over his knees, to cool himself.