When the old Prince Sansevero was alive, he and the present Duke, who was then a violent tempered youth, had several unfriendly encounters about the boundary line of this same property.  All this had seemed very trivial to Alessandro, the present Prince, who looked upon the Duke as one of his best friends—­but Alessandro had no perspicacity.  He believed others to be as free from guile as himself.

Reaching a small postern gate at the end of the path, the princess opened it by pressing a hidden spring.  This led directly into the apartments at the end of the south wing next to the kitchen offices—­the only ones at present in use.  She went directly to her own sitting-room, from which the evidences of her toilet had meantime been removed.

This room better than anything else proclaimed the manner of woman who occupied it.  It had been arranged by one to whom comfort was of paramount importance, and, in spite of a certain incongruity, the whole effect was pleasing and harmonious.  The frescoes on the walls were almost obliterated by age, and were partially covered by dull red stuff.  Against this latter hung three pictures from the famous Sansevero collection:  a Holy Family by Leonardo da Vinci, a triptych by Perugino, and a Madonna by Correggio.  Hardly less celebrated, but sharply at odds with the ecclesiastical subjects of the paintings, was the mantle, carved in a bacchanalian procession of satyrs and nymphs—­a model said to have been made by Niccola Pisano.

The floor, of the inevitable black and white marble, was strewn with rugs; and in front of desk and sofa bear skins had been added as a double protection against the cold.  The furniture was modern upholstery, with gay chintz slip-covers.  Frilled muslin curtains were crossed over and draped high under outer ones of chintz.  And everywhere there were flowers—­roses, orange blossoms, and camellias; in tall jars and short, on every available piece of furniture.  Scarcely less in evidence were photographs, propped against walls, ornaments, and flower jars; long, narrow, highly glazed European photographs with white backgrounds, uniformed officers, sentimentally posed engaged couples, young mothers in full evening dress reading to barefooted babies out of gingerly held picture books.  There were photographs of all varieties; big ones and little ones, framed and unframed—­the king and the queen with crown-surmounted settings and boldly written first names, and “A la cara Eleanor” inscribed above that of her majesty.  In the other photographs the signatures grew in complication and length as their aristocratic importance diminished.  Books and magazines littered the tables; French, Italian, and English in indiscriminate association.  A workbasket of plain sewing lay open among the pillows on the sofa.  An American magazine, with a paper-knife inserted between its leaves, was tossed beside a tooled morocco edition of Tacitus.  A crucifix hung beneath the Correggio; a plaster model of the Discobolus stood between the windows.