“Angela’s picture is gone out of Rome”—­he wrote—­“It was removed from the studio in the sight of an enormous crowd which had assembled to witness its departure.  The Voce Della Verita has described it as a direct inspiration of the devil, and suggests the burning-down of the studio in which it was painted, as a means of purifying the Sovrani Palace from the taint of sulphur and brimstone.  La Croix demands the excommunication of the artist, which by the way is very likely to happen.  The Osservatore Romano wishes that the ship specially chartered to take it to America, may sink with all on board.  All of which kind and charitable wishes on the part of the Vatican press have so augmented the fame of ’The Coming of Christ’ that the picture could hardly be got through the crush of people craning their necks to get a glimpse of it.  It is now en route via Bordeaux for London, where it is to be exhibited for six weeks.  As soon as I have finished superintending the putting by of a few home treasures here, I shall join you in Paris, when I hope to find my dear girl nearly restored to her usual self.  It will please her to know that her friend the charming Sylvie is well and very happy.  She was married for the second time before a Registrar in London, and is now, as she proudly writes, ‘well and truly’ Mrs. Aubrey Leigh, having entirely dropped her title in favour of her husband’s plainer, but to her more valuable designation.  Of course spiteful people will say she ceased to be Countess Hermenstein in order not to be recognized too soon as the ’renegade from the Roman Church,’ but that sort of thing is to be expected.  Society never gives you credit for honest motives, but only for dishonest ones.  We who know Sylvie, also know what her love for her husband is, and that it is love alone which inspires all her actions in regard to him.  Her chief anxiety at present seems to be about Angela’s health, and she tells me she telegraphs to you every day for news—­”

—­“Is that true?” asked Angela, interrupting the reading of her father’s letter.  “Does Sylvie in all her new happiness, actually think of me so much and so often?”

“Indeed she does!” replied the Princess D’Agramont.  “Chere enfant, you must not look at all the world through the cloud of one sorrow!  We all love you!—­we are all anxious to see you quite yourself again!”

Angela’s eyes filled with tears as they rested on her friend’s kindly face, a face usually so brilliant in its animated expression, but now saddened and worn by constant watching and fatigue.

“You are far too good to me,” she said in a low voice—­“And I am most unworthy of all your attention.”

Loyse D’Agramont paid no heed to this remark, but resumed reading the Prince Sovrani’s epistle—­