Faustina glanced scornfully at her father and turned away, walking slowly in the direction of the window.

“It is of no use to waste your breath on me,” she said presently.  “I will marry Gouache or nobody.”

“You—­marry Gouache?” cried the princess, who entered at that moment, and heard the last words.  Her voice expressed an amazement and horror fully equal to her husband’s.

“Have you come to join the fray, mamma?” inquired Faustina, in English.

“Pray speak in a language I can understand,” said Montevarchi who, in a whole lifetime, had never mastered a word of his wife’s native tongue.

“Oh, Lotario!” exclaimed the princess.  “What has the child been telling you?”

“Things that would make you tremble, my dear!  She refuses to marry Frangipani—­”

“Refuses!  But, Faustina, you do not know what you are doing!  You are out of your mind!”

“And she talks wildly of marrying a certain Frenchman, a Monsieur Gouache, I believe—­is there such a man, my dear?”

“Of course, Lotario!  The little man you ran over.  How forgetful you are!”

“Yes, yes, of course.  I know.  But you must reason with her, Guendalina—­”

“It seems to me.  Lotario, that you should do that—­”

“My dear, I think the child is insane upon the subject.  Where could she have picked up such an idea?  Is it a mere caprice, a mere piece of impertinence, invented to disconcert the sober senses of a careful father?”

“Nonsense, Lotario!  She is not capable of that.  After all, she is not Flavia, who always had something dreadful quite ready, just when you least expected it.”

“I almost wish she were Flavia!” exclaimed Montevarchi, ruefully.  “Flavia has done very well.”  During all this time Faustina was standing with her back towards the window and her hands folded before her, looking from the one to the other of the speakers with an air of bitter contempt which was fast changing to uncontrollable anger.  Some last remaining instinct of prudence kept her from interrupting the conversation by a fresh assertion of her will, and she waited until one of them chose to speak to her.  She had lost her head, for she would otherwise never have gone so far as to mention Gouache’s name, but, as with all very spontaneous natures, with her to break the first barrier was to go to the extreme, whatever it might be.  Her clear brown eyes were very bright, and there was something luminous about her angelic face which showed that her whole being was under the influence of an extraordinary emotion, almost amounting to exaltation.  It was impossible to foresee what she would say or do.

“Your father almost wishes you were Flavia!” groaned the princess, shaking her head and looking very grave.  Then Faustina laughed scornfully and her wrath bubbled over.