Donna Faustina was in the room, as he had reason to expect, but it was several minutes before Anastase could summon the determination necessary to go to her side.  She was standing near the piano, which faced outwards towards the body of the room, but was screened by a semicircular arrangement of plants, a novel idea lately introduced by Corona, who was weary of the stiff old-fashioned way of setting all the furniture against the wall.  Faustina was standing at this point therefore, when Gouache made towards her, having done homage to Corona and to the other ladies in the room.  His attention was arrested for a moment by the sight of San Giacinto’s gigantic figure.  The cousin of the house was standing before Mavia Montevarchi, bending slightly towards her and talking in low tones.  His magnificent proportions made him by far the most noticeable person in the room, and it is no wonder that Gouache paused and looked at him, mentally observing that the two would make a fine couple.

As he stood still he became aware that Corona herself was at his side.  He glanced at her with something of inquiry in his eyes, and was about to speak when she made him a sign to follow her.  They sat down together in a deserted corner at the opposite end of the room.

“I have something to say to you, Monsieur Gouache,” she said, in a low voice, as she settled herself against the cushions.  “I do not know that I have any right to speak, except that of a good friend—­and of a woman.”

“I am at your orders, princess.”

“No, I have no orders to give you.  I have only a suggestion to make.  I have watched you often during the last month.  My advice begins with a question.  Do you love her?”

Gouache’s first instinct was to express the annoyance he felt at this interrogation.  He moved quickly and glanced sharply at Corona’s velvet eyes.  Before the words that were on his lips could be spoken he remembered all the secret reverence and respect he had felt for this woman since he had first known her, he remembered how he had always regarded her as a sort of goddess, a superior being, at once woman and angel, placed far beyond the reach of mortals like himself.  His irritation vanished as quickly as it had arisen.  But Corona had seen it.

“Are you angry?” she asked.

“If you knew how I worship you, you would know that I am not,” answered Gouache with a strange simplicity.

For an instant the princess’s deep eyes flashed and a dark blush mounted through her olive skin.  She drew back, rather proudly.  A delicate, gentle smile played round the soldier’s mouth.

“Perhaps it is your turn to be angry, Madame,” he said, quietly.  “But you need not be.  I would say it to your husband, as I would say it to you in his presence.  I worship you.  You are the most beautiful woman in the world, the most nobly good.  Everybody knows it, why should I not say it?  I wish I were a little child, and that you were my mother.  Are you angry still?”