first, and then
Christina herself. Christina in particular. Me too, I might take the
liberty to add!"

There was, to Rowland, something acutely touching in this humble
petition. He had always felt a sort of imaginative tenderness for poor
little unexplained Giacosa, and these words seemed a supreme contortion
of the mysterious obliquity of his life. All of a sudden, as he watched
the Cavaliere, something occurred to him; it was something very odd, and
it stayed his glance suddenly from again turning to Mrs. Light. His idea
embarrassed him, and to carry off his embarrassment, he repeated that
it was folly to suppose that his words would have any weight with
Christina.

The Cavaliere stepped forward and laid two fingers on Rowland's breast.
"Do you wish to know the truth? You are the only man whose words she
remembers."

Rowland was going from surprise to surprise. "I will say what I can!"
he said. By this time he had ventured to glance at Mrs. Light. She was
looking at him askance, as if, upon this, she was suddenly mistrusting
his motives.

"If you fail," she said sharply, "we have something else! But please to
lose no time."

She had hardly spoken when the sound of a short, sharp growl caused the
company to turn. Christina's fleecy poodle stood in the middle of the
vast saloon, with his muzzle lowered, in pompous defiance of the three
conspirators against the comfort of his mistress. This young lady's
claims for him seemed justified; he was an animal of amazingly delicate
instincts. He had preceded Christina as a sort of van-guard of defense,
and she now slowly advanced from a neighboring room.

"You will be so good as to listen to Mr. Mallet," her mother said, in a
terrible voice, "and to reflect carefully upon what he says. I suppose
you will admit that he is disinterested. In half an hour you shall hear
from me again!" And passing her hand through the Cavaliere's arm, she
swept rapidly out of the room.

Christina looked hard at Rowland, but offered him no greeting. She was
very pale, and, strangely enough, it at first seemed to Rowland that
her beauty was in eclipse. But he very soon perceived that it had only
changed its character, and that if it was a trifle less brilliant than
usual, it was admirably touching and noble. The clouded light of her
eyes, the magnificent gravity of her features, the conscious erectness
of her head, might have belonged to a deposed sovereign or a condemned
martyr. "Why have