ch them, but I will not forgive
them. I am not angry. Why should I be?"

Francesca sighed, for she did not understand the man, though hitherto
she had always understood him, or thought that she had, ever since she
had been a mere child, playing with his colours and brushes in the
Palazzo Braccio. She left the hall and went to her own sitting-room on
the other side of the house. As soon as she was alone, the tears came to
her eyes. She was hardly aware of them, and when she felt them on her
cheeks she wondered why she was crying, for she did not often shed
tears, and was a woman of singularly well balanced nature, able to
control herself on the rare occasions when she felt any strong emotion.

In spite of Reanda's conduct, she determined not to leave matters as
they were without attempting to improve them. She wrote a note to Paul
Griggs, asking him to come and see her during the afternoon.

He could not refuse to answer the summons, knowing, as he did, that he
must in honour respond to any demand for an explanation coming from
Reanda's side. Gloria wished him to reply to the note, giving an excuse
and hinting that no good could come of any meeting.

"It is a point of honour," he answered briefly, and she yielded, for he
dominated her altogether.

Francesca received him in her own small sitting-room, which overlooked
the square before the Palazzetto. It was very quiet, and there were
roses in old Vienna vases. It was a very old-fashioned room, the air was
sweet with the fresh flowers, and the afternoon sun streamed in through
a single tall window. Francesca sat on a small sofa which stood
crosswise between the window and the writing-table. She had a frame
before her on which was stretched a broad band of deep red satin, a
piece of embroidery in which she was working heraldic beasts and
armorial bearings in coloured silks.

She did not rise, nor hold out her hand, but pointed to a chair near
her, as she spoke.

"I asked you to come," she said, "because I wish to speak to you about
Gloria."

Griggs bent his head, sat down, and waited with a perfectly impassive
face. Possibly there was a rather unusual aggressiveness in the straight
lines of his jaw and his even lips. There was a short silence before
Francesca spoke again.

"Do you know what you have done?" she asked, finishing a stitch and
looking quietly into the man's deep eyes.

He met her glance calmly, but said nothing, merely bending his head
again, very