t into the world, the most wonderful girl that
ever lived, her only child, was to be the mother of kings' and queens'
second cousins. It was quite indifferent that she should be called plain
Signora d'Este, and not princess, or duchess, or marchioness. The
Countess did not care a straw for titles, for she had lived in a world
where they are as plentiful as figs in August; but to be the mother of a
king's second cousin was something worth living for, and she herself
would be the mother-in-law of an ex-King's son, which would have made
her the something-in-law of the ex-King himself, if he had been alive.
Yet she cared very little for herself in comparison with Cecilia. She
was only a vicarious snob, after all, and a very motherly and loving
one, with harmless faults and weaknesses which every one forgave.

The Princess Anatolie saw that the impression was made, and was
satisfied for the present. She meant to have a little serious
conversation with the Countess before they parted for the summer, and
before the first impression had worn off, but it would have been a great
mistake to talk business on such an occasion as the present. The fish
was netted, that was the main thing; the next was to hasten the marriage
as much as possible, for the Princess saw at once that Cecilia was not
really in love with Guido, and as the fortune was hers, the girl had the
power to draw back at the last moment; that is to say, that all the
mothers of marriageable sons would declare that she was quite right in
doing what Italian society never quite pardons in ordinary cases. An
Italian girl who has broken off an engagement after it is announced does
not easily find a husband at any price.

Cecilia noticed that Monsieur Leroy was not present at the dinner, and
as she sat next to Guido she asked him the reason in an undertone.

"I do not know," he answered. "He is probably dining out. My aunt's
relations do not like him much, I believe."

The Countess was affectionately intent on everything her daughter said
and did, and was possessed of very good hearing; she caught the exchange
of question and answer, and it occurred to her that an absent person
might always be made a subject of conversation. She was not far from the
Princess at table.

"By-the-bye," she asked, agreeably, "where is Monsieur Leroy?"

Every one heard her speak, and to her amazement and confusion her words
produced one of those appalling silences which are remembered through