“If you could bring yourself,” the Cavaliere said, in a low, soft, caressing voice, “to address a few words of solemn remonstrance to Miss Light, you would, perhaps, do more for us than you know.  You would save several persons a great pain.  The dear signora, first, and then Christina herself.  Christina in particular.  Me too, I might take the liberty to add!”

There was, to Rowland, something acutely touching in this humble petition.  He had always felt a sort of imaginative tenderness for poor little unexplained Giacosa, and these words seemed a supreme contortion of the mysterious obliquity of his life.  All of a sudden, as he watched the Cavaliere, something occurred to him; it was something very odd, and it stayed his glance suddenly from again turning to Mrs. Light.  His idea embarrassed him, and to carry off his embarrassment, he repeated that it was folly to suppose that his words would have any weight with Christina.

The Cavaliere stepped forward and laid two fingers on Rowland’s breast.  “Do you wish to know the truth?  You are the only man whose words she remembers.”

Rowland was going from surprise to surprise.  “I will say what I can!” he said.  By this time he had ventured to glance at Mrs. Light.  She was looking at him askance, as if, upon this, she was suddenly mistrusting his motives.

“If you fail,” she said sharply, “we have something else!  But please to lose no time.”

She had hardly spoken when the sound of a short, sharp growl caused the company to turn.  Christina’s fleecy poodle stood in the middle of the vast saloon, with his muzzle lowered, in pompous defiance of the three conspirators against the comfort of his mistress.  This young lady’s claims for him seemed justified; he was an animal of amazingly delicate instincts.  He had preceded Christina as a sort of van-guard of defense, and she now slowly advanced from a neighboring room.

“You will be so good as to listen to Mr. Mallet,” her mother said, in a terrible voice, “and to reflect carefully upon what he says.  I suppose you will admit that he is disinterested.  In half an hour you shall hear from me again!” And passing her hand through the Cavaliere’s arm, she swept rapidly out of the room.

Christina looked hard at Rowland, but offered him no greeting.  She was very pale, and, strangely enough, it at first seemed to Rowland that her beauty was in eclipse.  But he very soon perceived that it had only changed its character, and that if it was a trifle less brilliant than usual, it was admirably touching and noble.  The clouded light of her eyes, the magnificent gravity of her features, the conscious erectness of her head, might have belonged to a deposed sovereign or a condemned martyr.  “Why have you come here at this time?” she asked.

“Your mother sent for me in pressing terms, and I was very glad to have an opportunity to speak to you.”

“Have you come to help me, or to persecute me?”