n as
accustomed as if it had been a legal marriage. The rupture had lasted for
two months, to the great scandal of Rome where the cult of long and
faithful affections still abides. And so the reconciliation touched every
heart and was regarded as one of the happiest consequences of the victory
which the Boccaneras had that day gained in the affair of Benedetta's
marriage. Morano repentant and Donna Serafina reappearing on his arm,
nothing could have been more satisfactory; love had conquered, decorum
was preserved and good order re-established.

But there was a deeper sensation as soon as Benedetta and Dario were seen
to enter, side by side, behind the others. This tranquil indifference for
the ordinary forms of propriety, on the very day when the marriage with
Prada had been annulled, this victory of love, confessed and celebrated
before one and all, seemed so charming in its audacity, so full of the
bravery of youth and hope, that the pair were at once forgiven amidst a
murmur of universal admiration. And as in the case of Celia and Attilio,
all hearts flew to them, to their radiant beauty, to the wondrous
happiness that made their faces so resplendent. Dario, still pale after
his long convalescence, somewhat slight and delicate of build, with the
fine clear eyes of a big child, and the dark curly beard of a young god,
bore himself with a light pride, in which all the old princely blood of
the Boccaneras could be traced. And Benedetta, she so white under her
casque of jetty hair, she so calm and so sensible, wore her lovely smile,
that smile so seldom seen on her face but which was irresistibly
fascinating, transfiguring her, imparting the charm of a flower to her
somewhat full mouth, and filling the infinite of her dark and fathomless
eyes with a radiance as of heaven. And in this gay return of youth and
happiness, an exquisite instinct had prompted her to put on a white gown,
a plain girlish gown which symbolised her maidenhood, which told that she
had remained through all a pure untarnished lily for the husband of her
choice. And nothing of her form was to be seen, not a glimpse of bosom or
shoulder. It was as if the impenetrable, redoubtable mystery of love, the
sovereign beauty of woman slumbered there, all powerful, but veiled with
white. Again, not a jewel appeared on her fingers or in her ears. There
was simply a necklace falling about her _corsage_, but a necklace fit for
royalty, the famous pearl necklace of