Ippolito Saracinesca was, perhaps, of all the household the most glad to see his favourite brother at home again so soon. He missed the companionship which had always been a large element in his life.

'I shall go with you when you return,' he said, sitting on the edge of Orsino's table, and swinging his priestly legs in an undignified fashion.

'Are you in earnest?' asked Orsino, with a laugh.

'Yes. Why not? You say that there is a church on the place, or a chapel. I will say mass there for the household on Sundays, and keep you company on week-days. You will be lonely when San Giacinto comes back. Besides, after what has happened, I hate to think that you are down there alone among strangers.'

'Have you nothing to keep you in Rome?' asked Orsino, much tempted by the offer.

'Nothing in the world.'

'There will be no piano at Camaldoli.'

'I suppose there is an organ in your church, is there not?'

'No. There is probably one in the church of Santa Vittoria. You could go and play on it.'

'How far is it?'

'Three-quarters of a mile, I was told.'

'As far as from the Piazza di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo.'

'Less. That is a mile, they always used to say, when the loose horses ran the race in carnival.'

'It would be just a pleasant walk, then,' said Ippolito, already planning his future occupations at Camaldoli. 'I could go over in the afternoon, when the church is closed, and play on the organ an hour or two whenever I pleased.'

'I have no idea what sort of thing the Santa Vittoria organ will turn out to be,' answered Orsino. 'It is probably falling to pieces, and has not been tuned since the beginning of the century.'

'I will mend it and tune it,' said Ippolito, confidently.

'You?' Orsino looked at his brother's delicate hands and laughed.

'Of course. Every musician knows something about the instruments he plays. I know how an organ is tuned, and I understand the mechanism. The old-fashioned ones are simple things enough. When a note goes wrong you can generally mend the tracker with a bit of wire, or a stick, as the case may be—or if it is the wind chest—'

'It is not of the slightest use to talk to me about that sort of thing,' interrupted Orsino, 'for I understand nothing about organs, nor about music either, for that matter.'

'I will take some tools with me, and some kid, and a supply of fine glue,' said Ippolito, still full of his idea. 'How about the rooms? Is there any decent furniture?'

Orsino gave him a general idea of the state of Camaldoli, not calculated to encourage him in his intention, but the young priest was both very fond of his brother, and he was in love with the novelty of his idea.

'I daresay that they have not too many priests in that part of the country,' he said. 'I may be of some use.'

'We got one without difficulty to bury that poor man,' answered Orsino. 'But you may be right. You may be the means of redeeming Sicily.' He laughed.

He was, indeed, inclined to laugh rather unexpectedly, since his interview with Vittoria. He was far too manly and strong to be saddened for any length of time by the fact of having taken the life of a man who had, undoubtedly, attempted to murder him by stealth. He had been oppressed by the certainty that the deed had raised an insurmountable barrier between Vittoria and himself. Since he had found that he had been mistaken, he was frankly glad that he had killed Ferdinando Pagliuca, for the very plain reason that if he had not done so, Ferdinando Pagliuca would have certainly killed him, or San Giacinto, or both. He had no more mawkish sentiment about the horror of shedding human blood than had embarrassed his own forefathers in wilder times. If men turned brigands and dug pitfalls, and tried to murder honest folk by treachery, they deserved to be killed; and though the first impression he had received, when he had been sure that he had killed his man, had been painful, because he was young and inexperienced in actual fighting, he now realised that but for the relationship of the dead man, it had not only been excusable, but wise, to shoot him like a wild beast. His own people thought so too.

It was natural, therefore, that his spirits should rise after his interview with Vittoria. On that day he had already been busy in carrying out San Giacinto's directions, and on the following morning he went to work with increased energy.

Corona watched him when they met, and the presentiment of evil which had seized her when he had first spoken of going to Sicily became more oppressive. She told herself that the worst had happened which could happen, but she answered herself with old tales of Sicilian revenge after long-nourished hatred. She was shocked when Ippolito announced his intention of accompanying his brother. Ippolito was almost indispensable to her. The old Prince used to tell her that her priest son answered the purpose of a daughter with none of the latter's disadvantages, at which Ippolito himself was the first to laugh good-naturedly, being well aware that he had as good stuff in him as his rough-cast brothers. But Corona really loved him more as a daughter than a son, and because he was less strong than the others, she was not so easily persuaded that he was safe when he was away from her, and she half resented the old gentleman's jest. She especially dreaded anything like physical exposure or physical danger for him. She was a brave and strong woman in almost every way, and would have sent her other three sons out to fight for their country or their honour without fear or hesitation. But Ippolito was different. Orsino might face the brigands if he chose. She could be momentarily anxious about him, but the belief prevailed with her that he could help himself and would come back safe and sound. One of the reasons, an unacknowledged one, why she had been so ready to let Ippolito follow his inclination for the church, was that priests are less exposed to all sorts of danger than other men. San Giacinto's Sicilian schemes suddenly seemed to her quite mad since Ippolito wished to accompany his brother and share in any danger which might present itself.

But Ippolito was one of those gently obstinate persons whom it is hard to move and almost impossible to stop when they are moving. He had made up his mind that he would go to Camaldoli, and he met his mother's objections with gentle but quite unanswerable arguments.

Had there ever been an instance of a priest being attacked by brigands? Corona was obliged to admit that she could remember none. Was he, Ippolito, accomplishing anything in the world, so long as he stayed quietly in Rome? Might he not do some good in the half-civilised country about Camaldoli and Santa Vittoria? He could at least try, and would. There was no answer to this either. Was not Orsino, who was melancholic by nature, sure to be wretchedly lonely down there after San Giacinto left? This was undoubtedly true.

'But the malaria,' Corona objected at last. 'There is fever there, all summer, I am sure. You are not so strong as Orsino. You will catch it.'

'I am much stronger than anybody supposes,' answered Ippolito. 'And if I were not, it is not always the strong people that escape the fever. Besides, there can be none before June or July, and Orsino does not expect to stay all summer.'

He had his way, of course, and made his preparations. Orsino was glad for his own sake, and he also believed that the change of existence would do his brother good. He himself was not present when these discussions took place. Ippolito told him about them.

Orsino wished to see Vittoria again before leaving Rome, but Corona refused to help him any further.

'I cannot,' she said. 'You had a right to see her that once. At least, I thought so. It seemed to be a sort of moral right. But I cannot arrange meetings for you. I cannot put myself in such a position towards that family. One may do in a desperate situation what one would absolutely refuse to do every day and in ordinary circumstances.'

'Going away, not knowing when I may come back, does not strike me as an ordinary circumstance,' said Orsino, discontentedly.

'You must see that for me to cheat Vittoria's mother and brothers by bringing her here to see you secretly, is to sacrifice all idea of dignity,' answered Corona.

'I had not looked at it in that light, nor called it by that name.'

'But I had, and I do. I am perfectly frank with you, and I always have been. I like the girl very much, but I do not wish you to marry her on account of her family. It is one thing to object to a marriage on the score of birth or fortune. You know that I should not, though I hope you will marry in your own class. Happiness is, perhaps, independent of the details of taste which make up daily life, but it runs on them, as a train runs on rails—and if a bad jolting is not unhappiness, it is certainly discomfort.'

'You are wise, mother. I never doubted that. But this is different—'

'Very different. That is what I meant to say. There would, perhaps, be no question of that sort of moral discomfort with Vittoria; she has been well brought up in a convent of ladies, like most of the young girls you meet in the world, like me, like all the rest of us. It is different. It is her family—they are impossible, not socially, for they are as good as anybody in the way of descent. Bianca Campodonico married Vittoria's uncle, and no one thought it a bad match until it turned out badly. But that is just it. They are all people who turn out badly. Tebaldo Pagliuca has the face of a criminal, and his brother makes one think of a satyr. Their mother is a nonentity and does not count. Vittoria is charming. I suppose she is like someone on her mother's side, for she has not the smallest resemblance to any of the others. But all the charm in the world will not compensate you for the rest of them. And now you have had the frightful misfortune to kill their brother. Did you never hear of a vendetta? The southern people are revengeful. The Corleone will never acknowledge to the world that Ferdinando was one of them, but they will not forget it, against you and yours, and your children. I meet those young men in the street, and they bow as though nothing had happened, but I know well enough that if they could destroy every one of us, they would. Can I put myself in the position of cheating such people by bringing Vittoria here to see you secretly? It is impossible. You must see it yourself.'

'Yes,' answered Orsino. 'I suppose I must admit it. It would be undignified.'

'Yes, very. The word is not strong enough. You must help yourself. I do not propose any solution of the difficulty. You love the girl. Heaven forbid that I should stand in the way of honest love between honest man and woman. But frankly, I wish that you did not love her, and that she did not love you. And I cannot help you any more, because I will not humiliate myself to deceive people who hate me, and you, and all of us, even to our name.'

'Do you think they do? Would they not be glad to see Vittoria married to me? After all, I am a great match for a ruined family's only daughter, and if Tebaldo Pagliuca is anything, he is grasping, I am sure.'

'Yes, but he is more revengeful than grasping, and more cunning than revengeful—a dangerous enemy. That is why I hate to see Ippolito go with you to the south. Some harm will come to him, I am sure. The Corleone have the whole country with them.'

'I will answer for him,' said Orsino, smiling. 'Nothing shall happen to him.'

'How can you answer for him? How can you pledge yourself that he shall be safe? It is impossible. You cannot spend your life in protecting him.'

'I can provide people who will,' answered the young man. 'But you are wrong to be so timid about him. No one ever touches a priest, in the first place, and before he has been there a fortnight, all the people will like him, as everybody always does. It is impossible not to like Ippolito. Besides, Tebaldo Pagliuca has no reason for going to Sicily now that the place is sold. Why in the world should he go? Little by little we shall gain influence there, and before long we shall be much more popular than the Corleone ever were. San Giacinto has written to me already. He says that everything is perfectly quiet already,—that was twenty-four hours after I left,—that he had twenty men from the village at work on the house, making repairs, and that they worked cheerfully and seemed to like his way of doing things. Since Ferdinando is dead there is no one to lead an opposition. They are all very poor and very glad to earn money.'

'It may be as you say,' said Corona, only partially reassured. 'I do not understand the condition of life there, of course, and I know that when you promise to answer for Ippolito you are in earnest, and will keep your word. But I am anxious—very anxious.'

'I am sorry, mother,' replied Orsino. 'I am very sorry. But you will soon see that you have no reason to be anxious. That is all I can say. I will answer for him with my life.'

'That is a mere phrase, Orsino,' said Corona, gravely, 'like a great many things one says when one is very much in earnest. If anything happened to him, your life would be still more precious to me than it is, if that were possible. You all think that because I am often anxious about him, he is my favourite. You do not understand me, any of you. I love you all equally, but I am not equally anxious about you all, and my love shows itself most for the one who seems the least strong and able to fight the world.'

'For that matter, mother, Ippolito is as able to fight his own battles as the strongest of us. He is obstinate to a degree hardly anyone can understand. He has the quiet, sound, uncompromising obstinacy of the Christian martyrs. People who have that sort of character are not weak, and they are generally very well able to take care of themselves.'

'Yes, I know he is obstinate. That is, when he insists upon going with you.'

Corona was very far from being satisfied, and Orsino felt that in spite of what she had said she was in reality laying upon him the responsibility for his brother's safety. He himself felt no anxiety on that score, however. In Rome, many hundreds of miles away from Camaldoli, even the things which had really happened during his brief stay in Sicily got an air of improbability and distance which made further complications of the same sort seem almost impossible. Besides, he had the promise of the Minister of the Interior that a company of infantry should shortly be quartered at Santa Vittoria, which would materially increase the safety of the whole neighbourhood.

Orsino's principal preoccupation was to see Vittoria again, alone, before he left. In the hope of meeting her he went to a garden party, and in the evening to two houses where she had gone frequently during the winter with her mother. But she did not appear. Her mother was ill, and Vittoria stayed at home with her. Her brothers, on the contrary, were everywhere, always smiling and apparently well satisfied with the world.

It was said that Tebaldo was trying to marry an American heiress, and Orsino twice saw him talking with the young stranger, who was reported to have untold millions, and was travelling with an aunt, who seemed to have as many more of her own. He looked at the girl without much curiosity, for the type has become familiar in Europe of late years.

Miss Lizzie Slayback—for that was her name—was undeniably pretty, though emphatically not beautiful. She was refined in appearance, too, but not distinguished. One could not have said that she was 'nobody,' as the phrase goes, yet no one would have said, at first sight, that she was 'somebody.' Yet she had an individuality of her own, which was particularly apparent in her present surroundings, a sort of national individuality, which contrasted with the extremely denationalised appearance and manner of Roman society. For the Romans of the great houses have for generations intermarried with foreigners from all parts of Europe, until such strongly Latin types as the Saracinesca are rare.

Miss Slayback was neither tall nor short, and she had that sort of generally satisfactory figure which has no particular faults and which is extremely easy to dress well. Her feet were exquisite, her hands small, but not pretty. She had beautiful teeth, but all her features lacked modelling, though they were all in very good proportion. Her head was of a good shape, and her hair was of a glossy brown, and either waved naturally or was made to wave by some very skilful hand. She had dark blue eyes with strong dark lashes, which atoned in a measure for a certain uninteresting flatness and absence of character about the brows and temples, and especially below the eyes themselves and at the angles, where lies a principal seat of facial expression. She spoke French fluently, but with a limited and uninteresting vocabulary, so that she often made exactly the same remarks about very different subjects. Yet her point of view being quite different from that of Romans, they listened to what she said with surprise, and sometimes with interest.

Her aunt was not really her aunt, but her uncle's wife, Mrs. Benjamin Slayback, whose maiden name had been Charlotte Lauderdale—a fact which meant a great deal in New York and nothing at all in Rome. She was an ambitious woman, well born and well educated, and her husband had been a member of Congress, and was now a senator for Nevada. He was fabulously rich, and his wife, who had married him for his money, having been brought up poor, had lately inherited a vast fortune of her own. Miss Lizzie Slayback was the only daughter of Senator Slayback's elder brother.

Orsino was told a great many of these facts, and they did not interest him in the least, for he had never thought of marrying a foreign heiress. But he was quite sure from the first that Tebaldo had made up his mind to get the girl if he could. The Slaybacks had been in Rome about a month, but Orsino had not chanced to see them, and did not know how long Tebaldo might have known them. It was said that they did not mean to stay much longer, and Tebaldo was doing his best to make good his running in the short time that remained.

It chanced that the first time Orsino came face to face with Tebaldo was when the latter had just been talking with Miss Slayback and was flattering himself that he had made an unusually good impression upon her. He was, therefore, in a singularly good humour, for a man whose temper was rarely good and was often very bad indeed. The two men met in a crowded room. Without hesitation Tebaldo held out his hand cordially to Orsino.

'I am very glad to see you safely back,' he said, with a great appearance of frankness. 'You are the hero of the hour, you know.'

For a moment even Orsino was confused by the man's easy manner. Even the eyes did not betray resentment. He said something by way of greeting.

'I have had some difficulty in making out who the brigand was whom you shot,' continued Tebaldo. 'It is an odd coincidence. We think it must have been one of the Pagliuca di Bauso. There is a distant branch of the family—rather down in the world, I believe—it must have been one of them.'

'I am glad it was no nearer relation,' answered Orsino, not knowing what to say.

'No near relative of mine would have been likely to be in such company,' answered the Sicilian, rather stiffly, for he was a good actor when not angry.

'No—of course not—I did not mean to suggest such a thing. It was an odd coincidence, of course.' Orsino tried not to look incredulous.

Tebaldo was about to pass on, when an idea presented itself to Orsino's mind, of which he had not thought before now. Slow men sometimes make up their minds suddenly, and not having the experience of habitually acting upon impulses, they are much more apt to make mistakes, on the rare occasions when they are carried away by an idea, and do so. It seemed to him that if he were ever to speak to either of Vittoria's brothers about marrying her, this was the moment to do so. It would be impossible for Tebaldo, in an instant, to deny what he had just now said, and it would be hard for him to find a pretext for refusing to give his sister to such a man. The whole thing might be carried through by a surprise, and Orsino would take the consequences afterwards, and laugh at them, if he were once safely married.

Tebaldo had already turned away to speak to someone else, and Orsino went after him and called him back.

'There is a matter about which I should like to speak to you, Don Tebaldo,' he said. 'Can we get out of this crowd?'

Tebaldo looked at him quickly and sharply, before he answered by a nod. The two men moved away together to the outer rooms, of which there were three or four, stiffly furnished with pier tables and high-backed gilt chairs, as in most old Roman houses. When they were alone, Orsino stopped.

'It is an important matter,' he said slowly. 'I wish to speak with you, as being the head of your family.'

'Yes,' answered Tebaldo, and the lids drooped, vulture-like, at the corners of his eyes, as he met Orsino's look steadily. 'By all means. We shall not be interrupted here. I am at your service.'

'I wish to marry your sister, and I desire your consent,' said Orsino. 'That is the whole matter.'

It would have been impossible to guess from the Sicilian's face whether he had ever anticipated such a proposition or not. There was absolutely no change in his expression.

'My sister is a very charming and desirable young girl,' he said rather formally. 'As there seems to be a good deal of liberty allowed to young girls in Rome, as compared with Sicily, you will certainly pardon me if I ask whether you have good reason to suppose that she prefers you in any way.'

'I have good reason for supposing so,' answered Orsino, but he felt the blood rising to his face as he spoke, for he did not like to answer such a question.

'I congratulate you,' said Tebaldo, smiling a little, but not pleasantly. 'Personally, I should also congratulate myself on the prospect of having such a brother-in-law. I presume you are aware that my sister has no dowry. We were ruined by my uncle Corleone.'

'It is a matter of perfect indifference,' replied Orsino.

'You are generous. I presume that you have inherited some private fortune of your own, have you not?'

'No, I am dependent on my father.'

'Then—pardon my practical way of looking at the affair,' said Tebaldo, accentuating his smile a little, 'but, as a mere formality, I think that there must be some proposal from the head of your house. You see, you and Vittoria will be dependent on an allowance from your father, who, again, is doubtless dependent on your grandfather, Prince Saracinesca. As my poor sister has nothing, there must necessarily be some understanding about such an allowance.'

'It is just,' answered Orsino, but he bit his lip. 'My father has an independent estate,' he added, by way of correction. 'And my mother has all the Astrardente property.'

'There is no lack of fortune on your side, my dear Don Orsino. You are, of course, sure of your father's consent, so that an interview with him will be a mere formality. For myself, I give you my hand heartily and wish you well. I shall be happy to meet the Prince of Sant' Ilario at any time which may be agreeable to him.'

Orsino felt that the man had got the better of him, but he had to take the proffered hand. Mentally he wondered what strange monster this Tebaldo Pagliuca could be within himself, to grasp the hand that had killed his brother less than a week ago, welcoming its owner as his brother-in-law. But he saw that the very simple and natural request for an interview with his father would probably prove a source of almost insurmountable difficulty.

'I had hoped,' he said, 'to have had the pleasure of seeing Donna Vittoria here this evening. I shall be obliged to return to Sicily in a day or two. May I see her at your house before I go?'

Tebaldo hesitated a moment.

'You will find her at home with my mother to-morrow afternoon,' he answered almost immediately. 'I see no reason why you should not call.'

'But your mother—' Orsino stopped short.

'What were you going to say?' enquired Tebaldo, blandly.

'You will be kind enough to tell her that I am coming, will you not?' Orsino saw that he was getting into a terribly difficult situation.

'Oh yes,' Tebaldo answered. 'I shall take great pleasure in announcing you. She is better, I am glad to say, and I have no doubt that this good news will completely restore her.'

Orsino felt a vague danger circling about his heart, as a hawk sails in huge curves that narrow one by one until he strikes his prey. The man was subtle and ready to take advantage of the smallest circumstance with unerring foresight while wholly concealing his real intention.

'Come at three o'clock, if it is convenient,' concluded Tebaldo. 'And now—' he looked at his watch—'you will forgive me if I leave you. I have an engagement which I must keep.'

He shook hands again with great cordiality, and they parted. Tebaldo went out directly, without returning to the inner rooms, but Orsino went back to stay half an hour longer. Out of curiosity he got a friend to introduce him to Miss Lizzie Slayback.

The girl looked up with a bright smile when she heard the great name.

'I have so much wanted to meet you,' she said quickly. 'You are the man who killed the brigand, are you not? Do tell me all about it!'

He was annoyed, for he could not escape, but he resigned himself and told the story in the fewest possible words.

'How interesting!' exclaimed Miss Slayback. 'And we all thought he was the brother of Don Tebaldo. You know Don Tebaldo, of course? I think he is a perfect beauty, and so kind.'

Orsino had never thought of Tebaldo Pagliuca as either kind or beautiful, and he said something that meant nothing in reply.

'Oh, you are jealous of him!' cried the girl, laughing. 'Of course! All the men are.'

Orsino got away as soon as he could. As a necessary formality he was introduced to Mrs. Slayback. He asked her an idle question about how she liked Rome, such as all Romans ask all foreigners about whom they know nothing.

'How late is it safe to stay here?' she asked, with singular directness, by way of an answer.

'Rome becomes unhealthy in August,' said Orsino. 'The first rains bring the fever. Until then it is perfectly safe, and one can return in October without danger. The bad time lasts for six weeks to two months at most.'

'Thank you,' answered Mrs. Slayback with a little laugh. 'We shall not stay till August, I think. It would be too hot. I suppose that it is hot in June.'

'Yes,' said Orsino, absently. 'I suppose that you would find it hot in June.'

He wanted to be alone, and he left her as soon as he could. He walked home in the warm night and reviewed his position, which had suddenly become complicated. It was clear that he must now speak to his father, since he had committed the folly of making his proposal to Tebaldo. It was almost certain that his father would refuse to hear of the marriage on any consideration, and he knew that his mother disapproved of it. It was clear also that he could not avoid going to call upon Vittoria and her mother on the following afternoon, but he could not understand why Tebaldo had pretended to be so sure that he should be received, when he himself was tolerably certain that Maria Carolina would refuse to see him. That, however, was a simple matter. He should ask for her, and on being told that she could not receive, he should leave his card and go away. But that would not help him to see Vittoria, and it was in order to see her alone before he left that he had suddenly determined to make his proposal to Tebaldo.

He had got himself into a rather serious scrape, and he was not gifted with more tact than the rest of his bold but tactless race. He therefore decided upon the only course which is open to such a man, which was to take his difficulties, one by one, in their natural order and deal with each as best he could.

He had nothing more to hope from his mother's intervention. He knew her unchangeable nature and was well aware that she would now hold her position to the last. She would not oppose his wishes, and that was a great deal gained, but she would not help him either.

Early on the following morning he went to Sant' Ilario's own room, feeling that he had a struggle before him in which he was sure to be defeated, but which he could not possibly avoid. His father was reading the paper over his coffee by the open window, a square, iron-grey figure clad in a loose grey jacket. The room smelt of coffee and cigarettes. Sant' Ilario's perfect contentment and happiness in his surroundings made him a particularly difficult person to approach suddenly with a crucial question. His serene felicity made a sort of resisting shell around him, through which it was necessary to break before he himself could be reached.

He looked up and nodded as Orsino entered. Such visits from his sons were of daily occurrence, and he expected nothing unusual. It was of no use to beat about the bush, and Orsino attacked the main question at once.

'I wish to speak to you about a serious matter, father,' he said, sitting down opposite Sant' Ilario.

'I wish Sicily were in China, and San Giacinto in Peru,' was the answer.

'It has nothing to do with San Giacinto,' said Orsino. 'I want to be married.'

Sant' Ilario looked up sharply, in surprise. His eldest son's marriage was certainly a serious matter.

'To whom?' he enquired.

'To Vittoria d'Oriani,' said Orsino, squaring his naturally square jaw, in anticipation of trouble.

Sant' Ilario dropped the paper, took his cigarette from his lips, and crossed one leg over the other angrily.

'I was afraid so,' he said. 'You are a fool. Go back to Sicily and do not talk nonsense.'

The Saracinesca men had never minced matters in telling each other what they thought.

'I expected that you would say something like that,' answered Orsino.

'Then why the devil did you come to me at all?' enquired his father, his grey hair bristling and his eyebrows meeting.

But Orsino was not like him, being colder and slower in every way, and less inclined to anger.

'I came to you because I had no choice but to come,' he answered quietly. 'I love her, she loves me, and we are engaged to be married. It was absolutely necessary that I should speak to you.'

'I do not see the necessity, since you knew very well that I should not consent.'

'You must consent in the end, father—'

'I will not. That ends it. It is the worst blood in Italy, and some of the worst blood in Europe. Corleone was a scoundrel, his father was a traitor—'

'That does not affect Donna Vittoria so far as I can see,' said Orsino, stubbornly.

'It affects the whole family. Besides, if they are decent people, they will not consent either. It is not a week since you killed Ferdinando Pagliuca—Vittoria's brother—'

'They deny it.'

'They lie, I believe.'

'That is their affair,' said Orsino.

'The fact does not beautify their family character, either,' retorted Sant' Ilario. 'With the whole of Europe to choose from, excepting a dozen royalties, you must needs fall in love with the sister of a brigand, the niece of a scoundrel, the grand-daughter of—'

'Yes—you have said all that. But I have promised to marry her, and that is a side of the question of which you cannot get rid so easily.'

'You did not promise her my consent, I suppose. I will not give it. If you choose to marry without it, I cannot hinder you. You can take her and live on her dowry, if she has one.'

'She has nothing.'

'Then you may live by your wits. You shall have nothing more from me.'

'If the wits of the family had ever been worth mentioning, I should ask nothing more,' observed Orsino, coldly. 'Unfortunately they are not a sufficient provision. You are forcing me into the position of breaking my word to a woman.'

'If neither her parents nor yours will consent to your marriage, you are not breaking your engagement. They will not give her to you if you cannot support her. Of course you can wait until I die. Judging from my father, and from my own state of health at present, it will be a long engagement.'

Orsino was silent for a moment. He did not lose his temper even now, but he tried to devise some means of moving Sant' Ilario.

'I spoke to Tebaldo Pagliuca last night,' he said, after a pause. 'In spite of what you seem to expect, he accepted my proposition, so far as he could.'

'Then he is an even greater villain than I had supposed him to be,' returned Sant' Ilario.

'That is no reason why you should force me to humiliate myself to him—'

'Send him to me, if you are afraid to face him. I will explain the situation—I will—'

'You will simply quarrel with him, father. You would insult him in the first three words you spoke.'

'That is very probable,' said Sant' Ilario. 'I should like to. He has been scheming to catch you for his sister ever since the evening they first dined here. But I did not think you were such a childish idiot as to be caught so easily.'

'No one has caught me, as you call it. I love Vittoria d'Oriani, and she loves me. You have no right to keep us apart because you did not approve of her grandfather and uncle.'

'No right? I have no right, you say? Then who has?'

'No one,' answered Orsino, simply.

'I have the power, at all events,' retorted his father. 'I would not have you marry her—would not? I will not. It is materially impossible for you to marry with no money at all, and you shall have none. Talk no more about it, or I shall positively lose my temper.'

It occurred to Orsino that it was positively lost already, but as he kept his own, he did not say so. He rose from his seat and calmly lighted a cigarette.

'Then there is nothing more to be said, I suppose,' he observed.

'Nothing more on that subject,' answered Sant' Ilario. 'Not that I have the least objection to saying over again all I have said,' he added.

'At all events, you do not pretend that you have any objection to Donna Vittoria herself, do you?'

'No—except that she has made a fool of you. Most women make fools of men, sooner or later.'

'Perhaps, but you should be the last person to say so, I think.'

'I married with my father's consent,' replied Sant' Ilario, as though the fact were an unanswerable argument. 'If I had made to him such a proposition as you are making to me, he would have answered in a very different way, my boy, I can tell you!'

'In what way?' asked Orsino.

'In what way? Why, he would have been furiously angry! He would have called me a fool and an idiot, and would have told me to go to the devil.'

Orsino laughed in spite of himself.

'What are you laughing at?' enquired Sant' Ilario, sharply, growing hot again in a moment.

'Those are exactly the words you have been saying to me,' answered Orsino.

'I? Have I? Well—that only proves that I am like my father, then. And a very good thing, too. It is a pity that you are not more like me than you are. We should understand each other better.'

'We may yet understand each other,' said Orsino, lingering in the vain hope of finding some new argument.

'No doubt. But not about this matter.'

Seeing that it was useless to prolong the discussion, Orsino went away to think matters over. He had been quite sure of his father's answer, of course, but that did not improve the situation at all. It had been a necessity of conscience and honour to go to him, after speaking to Tebaldo on the previous evening, because it was not possible to take his answer for granted. But now it became equally a duty of honour and self-respect to communicate to Tebaldo what Sant' Ilario had said, and to do so was a most unpleasant humiliation. He cared nothing for the fact that his father's refusal might almost seem like an insult to Tebaldo Pagliuca, though he could not quite see how he could make the communication without giving offence. The real trouble was that he should be practically obliged to take back what he had said, and to say that after all, in the face of his family's objections, he could not marry Vittoria at present, and saw no prospect of being able to marry her in the future.

At the same time he wondered how much Tebaldo had told his mother. She also, according to Vittoria's statement, would oppose their marriage with all her power. Yet Tebaldo had professed himself quite certain that she would receive Orsino when he called. There was something mysterious about that.

Orsino made up his mind that he would ask for Tebaldo a quarter of an hour before the time named by the latter, and get over the disagreeable interview before making an attempt to have a word with Vittoria alone.