They were not poor for their station; indeed, they were among the wealthiest of their class in Aquila.  He had promised to assert his title when they should be rich enough, but poor Felice had died too soon.  Then had come that great day when Giovanni had won in the lottery —­Giovanni who had never played before and had all his life called it a waste of money and a public robbery.  But, playing once, he had played high, and all his numbers had appeared on the following Saturday.  Two hundred thousand francs in a day!  Such luck only falls to the lot of men who are born under destiny.  Giovanni had long known what he should do if he only possessed the capital.  The winnings were paid in cash, and in a fortnight he had taken up a government contract in the province of Aquila.  Then came another and another.  Everything turned to gold in his hands, and in two years he was a rich man.

Alone in the world, with his two little boys, and possessed of considerable wealth, the longing had come over him to take the position to which he had a legitimate right, a position which, he supposed, would not interfere with his increasing his fortune if he wished to do so.  He had left the children under the supervision of old Don Paolo, the curate, and had come to Rome, where he had lodged in an obscure hotel until he had fitted himself to appear before his cousins as a gentleman.  His grave temper, indomitable energy, and natural astuteness had done the rest, and fortune had crowned all his efforts.  The old blood of the Saracinesca had grown somewhat coarse by the admixture of a stream very far from blue; but if it had lost in some respects it had gained in others, and the type was not wholly low.  The broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned giant was not altogether unworthy of the ancient name, and he knew it as his wife nestled to his side.  He loved the wild element in her, but most of all he loved the thoroughbred stamp of her face, the delicacy of her small hands, the aristocratic ring of her laughter, for these all told him that, after three generations of obscurity he had risen again to the level whence his fathers had fallen.

The change in his life became very dear to him, as all these things passed quickly through his mind; and with the consciousness of vivid contrast came the certainty that he loved Flavia far better than he had believed possible.

“And what shall I call you?” he asked, rather bluntly.  He did not quite know whether it would be wise to use any term of endearment or not.  Indeed, this was the weak point in his experience, but he supplemented the deficiency by a rough tenderness which was far from disagreeable to Flavia.

“Anything you like, dear,” she answered.  San Giacinto felt the blood rush to his head with pleasure as he heard the epithet.

“Anything?” he asked, with a very unwonted tremour in his voice.

“Anything—­provided you will love me,” she replied.  He thought he had never seen such wicked, fascinating eyes.  He drew her face to his and looked into them a moment, his own blazing suddenly with a passion wholly new to him.