At the Palazzo Montevarchi Giovanni learned that the princess had just finished breakfast.  He could hardly ask for Gouache without making a short visit in the drawing-room, and he accordingly submitted, regretting after all that he had come.  The old princess bored him, he did not know Faustina, who was just out of the convent, and Flavia, who amused many people, did not amuse him in the least.  He inwardly rejoiced that he was married, and that his visit could not be interpreted as a preliminary step towards asking for Flavia’s hand.

The princess looked up with an expression of inquiry in her prominent blue eyes, as Sant’ Ilario entered.  She was stout, florid, and not well dressed.  Her yellow hair, already half gray, for she was more than fifty years old, was of the unruly kind, and had never looked neat even in her best days.  Her bright, clear complexion saved her, however, as it saves hundreds of middle-aged Englishwomen, from that look of peculiar untidiness which belongs to dark-skinned persons who take no trouble about their appearance or personal adornment.  In spite of thirty-three years of residence in Rome, she spoke Italian with a foreign accent, though otherwise correctly enough.  But she was nevertheless a great lady, and no one would have thought of doubting the fact.  Fat, awkwardly dressed, of no imposing stature, with unmanageable hair and prominent teeth, she was not a person to be laughed at.  She had what many a beautiful woman lacks and envies—­natural dignity of character and manner, combined with a self-possession which is not always found in exalted personages.  That repose of manner which is commonly believed to be the heirloom of noble birth is seen quite as often in the low-born adventurer, who regards it as part of his stock-in-trade; and there are many women, and men too, whose position might be expected to place them beyond the reach of what we call shyness, but who nevertheless suffer daily agonies of social timidity and would rather face alone a charge of cavalry than make a new acquaintance.  The Princess Montevarchi was made of braver stuff, however, and if her daughters had not inherited all her unaffected dignity they had at least received their fair share of self-possession.  When Sant’ Ilario entered, these two young ladies, Donna Flavia and Donna Faustina, were seated one on each side of their mother.  The princess extended her hand, the two daughters held theirs demurely crossed upon their knees.  Faustina looked at the carpet, as she had been taught to do in the convent.  Flavia looked up boldly at Giovanni, knowing by experience that her mother could not see her while greeting the visitor.  Sant’ Ilario muttered some sort of civil inquiry, bowed to the two young ladies and sat down.

“How is Monsieur Gouache?” he asked, going straight to the point.  He had seen the look of surprise on the princess’s face as he entered, and thought it best to explain himself at once.

“Ah, you have heard?  Poor man!  He is badly hurt, I fear.  Would you like to see him?”