“Don’t shout very loud,” she said, “remember that we are in church; there ’s a limit to the noise one may make even in Saint Peter’s.  Christina Light was married this morning to Prince Casamassima.”

Rowland did not shout at all; he gave a deep, short murmur:  “Married—­this morning?”

“Married this morning, at seven o’clock, le plus tranquillement du monde, before three or four persons.  The young couple left Rome an hour afterwards.”

For some moments this seemed to him really terrible; the dark little drama of which he had caught a glimpse had played itself out.  He had believed that Christina would resist; that she had succumbed was a proof that the pressure had been cruel.  Rowland’s imagination followed her forth with an irresistible tremor into the world toward which she was rolling away, with her detested husband and her stifled ideal; but it must be confessed that if the first impulse of his compassion was for Christina, the second was for Prince Casamassima.  Madame Grandoni acknowledged an extreme curiosity as to the secret springs of these strange doings:  Casamassima’s sudden dismissal, his still more sudden recall, the hurried private marriage.  “Listen,” said Rowland, hereupon, “and I will tell you something.”  And he related, in detail, his last visit to Mrs. Light and his talk with this lady, with Christina, and with the Cavaliere.

“Good,” she said; “it ’s all very curious.  But it ’s a riddle, and I only half guess it.”

“Well,” said Rowland, “I desire to harm no one; but certain suppositions have taken shape in my mind which serve as a solvent to several ambiguities.”

“It is very true,” Madame Grandoni answered, “that the Cavaliere, as he stands, has always needed to be explained.”

“He is explained by the hypothesis that, three-and-twenty years ago, at Ancona, Mrs. Light had a lover.”

“I see.  Ancona was dull, Mrs. Light was lively, and—­three-and-twenty years ago—­perhaps, the Cavaliere was fascinating.  Doubtless it would be fairer to say that he was fascinated.  Poor Giacosa!”

“He has had his compensation,” Rowland said.  “He has been passionately fond of Christina.”

“Naturally.  But has Christina never wondered why?”

“If she had been near guessing, her mother’s shabby treatment of him would have put her off the scent.  Mrs. Light’s conscience has apparently told her that she could expiate an hour’s too great kindness by twenty years’ contempt.  So she kept her secret.  But what is the profit of having a secret unless you can make some use of it?  The day at last came when she could turn hers to account; she could let the skeleton out of the closet and create a panic.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I morally,” said Rowland.  “I only conceive that there was a horrible, fabulous scene.  The poor Cavaliere stood outside, at the door, white as a corpse and as dumb.  The mother and daughter had it out together.  Mrs. Light burnt her ships.  When she came out she had three lines of writing in her daughter’s hand, which the Cavaliere was dispatched with to the prince.  They overtook the young man in time, and, when he reappeared, he was delighted to dispense with further waiting.  I don’t know what he thought of the look in his bride’s face; but that is how I roughly reconstruct history.”