“Who has spoken of money?” The countess’s tone expressed grave indifference to such a trifle.  “Dear Duca, do not be distressed.  We cannot help it.  We cannot dictate to Providence.  Had circumstances been different, what better match could we have found for her than your dear son?  But I told you that the girl’s inclinations must be consulted, and that we had little hope of satisfying you.  And now—­” She looked earnestly at her husband, as though to secure his consent beforehand—­“and now it has turned out as we foresaw.  Courage, dear Duca!  Your son is young.  He has seen Veronica but a few times, and they have certainly never been alone together—­what can it really be, such love-passion as that?  Veronica has made her choice.”

Not a muscle of Macomer’s hard face moved.  He knew that if his wife had a surprise for him on the spur of the moment, it must be for their joint interest.  But the Duca della Spina’s jaw dropped, and his hands shook.

“Yes,”—­continued the countess, calmly, “Veronica has made her choice.  It is hard for us to tell you, knowing how you feel for your son.  Veronica is engaged to be married to Bosio, here.”

Bosio started violently, for he was a very nervously organized man; but his brother’s face did not change, though the small eyes suddenly flashed into sight brightly from beneath the drooping, concealing lids.  A dead silence followed, which lasted several seconds.  Matilde had laid her hand upon the Duca’s arm, as though to give him courage, and she felt it tremble under her touch, for he loved his son very dearly.

“You might have written me this news,” he said at last, in a low voice and with a dazed look.  “You might—­you might have spared me—­oh, my son!  My poor Gianluca!” His voice broke, and the weak, sincere tears broke from the watery eyes and trickled down the wasted cheeks piteously, while his head turned slowly from side to side in sorrowfully hopeless regret.

“It has only been decided this evening,” said Matilde.  “We should have written to you in the morning.”

“Of course,” echoed her husband, gravely.  “It was our duty to let you know at once.”

The Duca della Spina rose painfully to his feet.  He seemed quite unconscious of the tears he had shed, and too much shaken to take leave with any formality.  Bosio stood quite still, when he had risen too, and his face was white.  The old man passed him without a word, going to the door.

“My poor son! my poor Gianluca!” he repeated to himself, as Gregorio Macomer accompanied him.

Matilde and Bosio were left alone for a moment, but they knew that the count would return at once.  They stood still, looking each at the other, with very different expressions.