“I suppose it is irrevocable,” he said, as if to himself.

“Oh, yes—­perfectly irrevocable,” I answered, promptly.  “They are married, and have come back to Rome.  They are at the Hotel Costanzi.  I am sure that Nino would give you every explanation.”

“Who is Nino?” he asked.

“Nino Cardegna, of course—­”

“And do you foolishly imagine that I am going to ask him to explain why he took upon himself to carry away my daughter?” The question was scornful enough.

“Signor Conte,” I protested, “you would do well to see them, for she is your daughter, after all.”

“She is not my daughter any longer,” growled the count.  “She is married to a singer, a tenor, an Italian with curls and lies and grins, as you all have.  Fie!” And he pulled his moustache again.

“A singer,” said I, “if you like, but a great singer, and an honest man.”

“Oh, I did not come here to listen to your praises of that scoundrel!” he exclaimed, hotly.  “I have seen enough of him to be sick of him.”

“I wish he were in this room to hear you call him by such names,” I said; for I began to grow angry, as I sometimes do, and then my fear grows small and my heart grows big.

“Ah!” said he, ironically.  “And pray, what would he do to me?”

“He would probably ask you again for that pistol you refused to lend him the other day.”  I thought I might as well show that I knew all about the meeting in the road.  But Lira laughed grimly, and the idea of a fight seemed to please him.

“I would not refuse it this time.  In fact, since you mention it, I think I will go and offer it to him now.  Do you think I should be justified, Master Censor?”

“No,” said I, coming forward and facing him.  “But if you like you can fight me.  I am your own age, and a better match.”  I would have fought him then and there, with the chairs, if he had liked.

“Why should I fight you?” he inquired, in some astonishment.  “You strike me as a very peaceable person indeed.”

“Diavolo! do you expect me to stand quietly and hear you call my boy a scoundrel?  What do you take me for, signore?  Do you know that I am the last of the Conti Grandi, and as noble as any of you, and as fit to fight, though my hair is gray?”

“I knew, indeed, that one member of that illustrious family survived in Rome,” he answered, gravely, “but I was not aware that you were he.  I am glad to make your acquaintance, and I sincerely wish that you were the father of the young man who has married my daughter.  If you were, I would be ready to arrange matters.”  He looked at me searchingly.

“Unfortunately, I am not any relation of his,” I answered.  “His father and mother were peasants on my estate of Serveti, when it still was mine.  They died when he was a baby, and I took care of him and educated him.”

“Yes, he is well educated,” reflected the count, “for I examined him myself.  Let us talk no more about fighting.  You are quite sure that the marriage is legal?”