icism poured forth from
room to room in the atmosphere laden with the perfume of crumpled roses.

Then a sweet voice, supported by others more harsh, began a prayer that
had the voluptuous rhythm of an Italian serenade. A passing wave of
sentimentality seemed to stir the guests. Cotoner, who stood near the
altar, in case Monsignor should need something, felt moved to tenderness
by the music, by the sight of that distinguished gathering, by the
dramatic gravity with which the Roman prelate conducted the ceremonies
of his profession. Seeing Milita so fair, kneeling, with her eyes
lowered under her snowy veil, the poor Bohemian blinked to keep back the
tears. He felt just as if he were marrying his own daughter. He who had
not had one!

Renovales sat up, seeking the countess's eyes above the white and black
mantillas. Sometimes he found them resting on him with a mocking
expression, at other times he saw them seeking Monteverde in the crowd
of gentlemen that filled the doorway.

There was one moment when the painter paid attention to the ceremony.
How long it was! The music had ceased; Monsignor, with his back to the
altar, advanced several steps toward the newly married couple, holding
out his hands, as if he were going to speak to them. There was a
profound hush and the voice of the Italian began to sound in the silence
with a sing-song mellowness, hesitating over some words, supplying them
with others of his own language. He explained to the man and wife their
duties and expatiated, with oratorical fire, in his praises of their
families. He spoke little of him; he was a representative of the upper
classes, from which rise the leaders of men; he knew his duties. She was
the descendant of a great painter whose fame was universal, of an
artist.

As he mentioned art, the Roman prelate was fired with enthusiasm, as if
he were speaking of his own stock, with the deep interest of a man whose
life had been spent among the splendid half-pagan decorations of the
Vatican. "Next to God, there is nothing like art." And after this
statement, with which he attributed to the bride a nobility superior to
that of many of the people who were watching her, he eulogized the
virtues of her parents. In admirable terms, he commended their pure love
and Christian fidelity, ties with which they approached together,
Renovales and his wife, the portal of old age and which surely would
accompany them till death. The painter bowed his head, afra