He uttered a quick exclamation of pleasure.

“You know her?”

She looked up,—­her eyes sparkled—­and she laid a finger on her lips.

“Keep my secret!” she said—­“I am so glad to meet you personally at last!”

He stared, bewildered.

“You—­you . . . !”

“Yes.  I!” and she smiled—­“The mysterious and Christian-Democratic ‘Angele’ is Angela Sovrani.  So you see we have been unconscious friends for some time!”

His face grew radiant, and he made a quick movement towards her.

“Then I owe you a great debt of gratitude!” he said—­“For encouragement—­for sympathy—­for help in dark hours!—­and how unworthy I have proved of your goodness . . . what must you think of me—­you—­so beautiful—­so good—­”

She moved back a little with a warning gesture—­and his words were interrupted by the Abbe, who glancing from one to the other in a little surprise, said, as he bent reverently over her hand and kissed it,—­

“We must be going, Cyrillon!”

Another few moments and Angela was left alone to think over, and try to realise the strange and rapidly-occurring events of the day.  Whatever her thoughts were they seemed for a long time to be of a somewhat April-like character, for her eyes brimmed over with tears even while she smiled.

XVII.

In one of the few remaining streets of Rome which the vandal hand of the modern builder and restorer has not meddled with, stands the “Casa D’Angeli”, a sixteenth-century building fronted with wonderfully carved and widely projecting balconies—­each balcony more or less different in design, yet forming altogether in their entirety the effect of complete sculptural harmony.  The central one looks more like a cathedral shrine than the embrasure of a window, for above it angels’ heads look out from the enfolding curves of their own tall wings, and a huge shield which might serve as a copy of that which Elaine kept bright for Lancelot, is poised between, bearing a lily, a cross, and a heart engraven in its quarterings.  Here, leaning far forward to watch the intense gold of the Roman moon strike brightness and shadow out of the dark uplifted pinions of her winged stone guardians, stood Sylvie Hermenstein, who, in her delicate white attire, with the moonbeams resting like a halo on her soft hair, might have easily passed for some favoured saint whom the sculptured angels were protecting.  And yet she was only one whom the world called “a frivolous woman of society, who lived on the admiration of men”.  So little did they know her,—­so little indeed does the world know about any of us.  It was true that Sylvie, rich, lovely, independent, and therefore indifferent to opinions, lived her own life very much according to her own ideas,—­but then those ideas were far more simple and unworldly than anybody gave her credit for.  She to whom all the courts of Europe were open, preferred to wander