I was not convinced or satisfied, but it was useless to pursue the subject then.

“Will you ride to-day?” Guy asked.  “There are always horses for you here.  I should like to introduce you to Constance.  We shall be in the Park about five.”

I accepted willingly, and left him soon afterward.

A little after the hour he had named I saw Livingstone’s tall figure turn the corner of Kensington Gardens, riding on Miss Brandon’s right; on her left was her uncle, Mr. Vavasour, her usual escort.

She was rarely lovely, certainly, as I was sure she would be, for Guy’s taste in feminine beauty was undisputed.  Her features were delicate, but very clearly cut; the nose and chin purely Grecian in their outline; the dark gray eyes met you with an earnest, true expression, as if they had nothing to conceal.  Her broad Spanish hat suited her well, shading as it did cheeks slightly flushed by exercise, and shining tresses of that color which with us is nameless, and which across the Channel they call—­blond cendre.  Her hand was strikingly perfect, even in its gauntlet.  It might have been modeled from that famous marble fragment of which the banker-poet was so proud, and which Canova kissed so often.

There is a face which always reminds me of hers, though the figure in the portrait is far more matured and developed than Constance’s willowy form—­the picture of Queen Joanna of Naples in the Palazzo Doria.

I have stood before it long, trying in vain to read the riddle of the haughty lineaments, and serene, untroubled eyes.  Gazing at these, who could guess the story of that most guilty woman and astute conspirator—­unbridled in sensuality—­remorseless in statecraft—­who counted her lovers by legions, and saw, unmoved, her chief favorite torn limb from limb on the rack?

But this is no singular instance.  Marble and canvas are more discreet than the mask of the best trained living features.  Messalina and Julia look cold and correct enough since they have been turned into stone.  Only by the magic of her smile and by the glory of her golden hair do we recognize her who, if all tales are true, might have given a tongue to the walls of the Vatican.  We forget the Borgia, with her laboratory of philtres and poisons—­we only think that never a duke of all his royal race brought home a lovelier bride than Alfonso of Ferrara.

Perhaps it is best so.  Why should a mark be set upon those whom, it may be, history has condemned unrighteously?  Let us not be more uncharitable than the painter or the sculptor, but pass on without pausing to reflect—­Desinit in piscem.