Gerano, though he sometimes
spoke unaffectedly of his boyhood.

But Gloria reminded people too often that she had a right to be where
she was, as the daughter of Angus Dalrymple, who might some day be Lord
Redin. Fortunately for her, no one knew that Dalrymple had begun life as
a doctor, and very far from such prospects as now seemed quite within
the bounds of realization. But even as the possible Lord Redin, her
father's existence did not interest the Romans at all. They were not
accustomed to people who thought it necessary to justify their social
position by allusions to their parentage, and since Francesca
Campodonico had assured them that Dalrymple was a gentleman, they had no
further questions to ask, and raised their eyebrows when Gloria
volunteered information on the subject of her ancestors. They listened
politely, and turned the subject as soon as they could, because it bored
them.

But the admiration she got was genuine of its kind, as admiration and as
nothing else. Her magnificent voice was useful to ancient and charitable
princesses who wished to give concerts for the benefit of the deserving
poor, but her face disturbed the hearts of those excellent ladies who
had unmarried sons, and of other excellent ladies who had gay husbands.
Her beauty and her voice together were a danger, and must be admired
from a distance. Gloria and her husband were asked to many houses on
important occasions. Gloria went to see the princesses and duchesses,
and found them at home. Their cards appeared regularly at the small
house in the Macel de' Corvi, but there was always a mystery as to how
they got there, for the princesses and the duchesses themselves did not
appear, except once or twice when Francesca Campodonico brought one of
her friends with her, gently insisting that there should be a proper
call. Gloria understood, and said bitter things about society when she
was alone, and by degrees she began to say them to her husband.

"These Romans!" she exclaimed at last. "They believe that there is
nobody like themselves!"

Angelo Reanda's face had a pained look, as he laid his long thin hand
upon hers.

"My dear," he said gently. "You have married an artist. What would you
have? I am sure, people have received us very well."

"Very well! Of course--as though we had not the right to be received
well. But, Angelo--do not say such things--that I have married an
artist--"

"It is quite true," he answered, with a smile.