She entered and stood before him, softly magnificent as a sunset in spring; looking as even a very stout woman of fifty can, if she has a matchless complexion, perfect teeth, splendid eyes, faultless taste, a wonderful dressmaker and a maid who does not hate her.

Malipieri vaguely wondered how Sabina could be her daughter, drew an armchair into place for her, and sat down again by his writing-table.  The windows were open and the blinds were drawn together to keep out the glare, for it was a hot day.  A vague and delicious suggestion of Florentine orris-root spread through the warm air as the Princess sat down.  Malipieri watched her face, but her expression showed no signs of any inward disturbance.

“Are you sure that nobody will interrupt us?” she asked, as Masin went out and shut the door.

“Quite sure.  What can I do to serve you?”

“I have had this disgusting letter.”

She produced a small, coarse envelope from the pale mauve pocket-book she carried in her hand, and held it out to Malipieri, who took it and read it carefully.  It was not quite easy for him to understand, as Gigi wrote in the Roman dialect without any particular punctuation, and using capitals whenever it occurred to him, except at the beginning of a sentence.  To Malipieri, as a Venetian, it was at first sight about as easy as a chorus of Aeschylus looks to an average pass-man.

As the sense became clear to him, his eyelids contracted and his face was drawn as if he were in bodily pain.

“When did you get this?” he asked, folding the letter and putting it back into the envelope.

“Five or six days ago, I think.  I am not sure of the date, but it does not matter.  It says the money must be paid in ten days, does it not?  Yes—­something like that.  I know there is some time left.  I have come to you because I have tried everything else.”

“Everything else?” cried Malipieri, in sudden anxiety.  “What in the world have you tried?”

“I sent for Volterra the day after I got this.”

“Oh!” Malipieri was somewhat relieved.  “What did he advise you to do?  To employ a detective?”

“O dear, no!  Nothing so simple and natural.  That man is an utter brute, and I am sorry I left Sabina so long with his wife.  She would have been much better in the convent with her sister.  I am afraid that is where she will end, poor child, and it will be all your fault, though you never meant any harm.  You do not think you could divorce and marry her, do you?”

Malipieri stared at her a moment, and then bit his lip to check the answer.  He had no right to resent whatever she chose to say to him, for he was responsible for all the trouble and for Sabina’s good name.

“There is no divorce law in Italy,” he answered, controlling himself.  “Why do you say that Volterra is an utter brute?  What did he advise you to do?”

“He offered to silence the creature who wrote this letter if I would make a bargain with him.  He said he would pay the money, if I would give Sabina to his second son, who is a cavalry officer in Turin, and whom none of us has ever seen.”