irritation concerning small matters, or some passionate outburst like the present against life, against the world in which he lived, against everything.  It is scarcely to be wondered at that he should have felt the loss so deeply, more deeply even than Giovanni.  He had been for many years the sole head and master of his house, and had borne all the hereditary dignities that belonged to his station, some of which were of a kind that pleased his love of feudal traditions.  For the money he cared little.  The loss that hurt him most touched his pride, and that generous vanity which was a part of his nature, which delighted in the honour accorded to his name, to his son, to his son’s wife, in the perpetuation of his race and in a certain dominating independence, that injured no one and gave himself immense satisfaction.  At his age he was not to be blamed for such feelings.  They proceeded in reality far more from habit than from a vain disposition, and it seemed to him that if he bore the calamity bravely he had a right to abuse his fate in his own language.  But he could not always keep himself from betraying more emotion than he cared to show.

“Do not talk of death,” said Corona.  “Giovanni and I will make your life happy and worth living.”  She sighed as she spoke, in spite of herself.

“Giovanni and you!” repeated the prince gloomily.  “But for his folly—­what is the use of talking?  I have much to do.  If he comes to you this afternoon please tell him that I want him.”

Corona was glad when the meal was ended, and she went back to her own room.  She had promised to go and see Faustina again, but otherwise she did not know how to occupy herself.  A vague uneasiness beset her as the time passed and her husband did not come home.  It was unlike him to stay away all day without warning her, though she was obliged to confess to herself that she had of late shown very little interest in his doings, and that it would not be very surprising if he began to do as he pleased without informing her of his intentions.  Nevertheless she wished he would show himself before evening.  The force of habit was still strong, and she missed him without quite knowing it.  At last she made an effort against her apathy, and went out to pay the promised visit.

The Montevarchi household was subdued under all the outward pomp of a ponderous mourning.  The gates and staircases were hung with black.  In the vast antechamher the canopy was completely hidden by an enormous hatchment before which the dead prince had lain in state during the previous night and a part of the day.  According to the Roman custom the body had been already removed, the regulations of the city requiring that this should be done within twenty-four hours.  The great black pedestals on which the lights had been placed were still standing, and lent a ghastly and sepulchral appearance to the whole.  Numbers of servants in mourning liveries stood around an immense copper brazier in a corner, talking together in low tones, their voices dying away altogether as the Princess Sant’ Ilario entered the open door of the hall.  The man who came forward appeared to be the person in charge of the funeral, for Corona had not seen him in the house before.