In spite of her position Sabina smiled at the last sentence.  It was so like her mother to promise what she would never perform, that it amused her.  She sat still for some time with the letter in her hand and then took it to the Baroness, for she felt that it was time to speak out and that the interview could not be put off any longer.  The Baroness was writing in her boudoir.  She wrote her letters on large sheets of an especial paper, stamped with her initials, over which appeared a very minute Italian baron’s coronet, with seven points; it was so small that one might easily have thought that it had nine, like a count’s, but it was undeniably smart and suggested an assured position in the aristocracy.  No one quite remembered why the late King had made Volterra a baron, but he undoubtedly had done so, and no one disputed Volterra’s right to use the title.

Sabina read her letter aloud, and the Baroness listened attentively, with a grave expression.

“Your dear mother—­” she began in a soothing tone.

“She is not my ‘dear mother’ at all,” said Sabina, interrupting her.  “She is not any more ‘dear’ to me than I am to her.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Baroness, affecting to be shocked by the girl’s heartlessness.

“If it were not for my ‘dear mother,’ I should not be a beggar,” said Sabina.

“A beggar!  What a word!”

“There is no other, that I know of.  I am living on your charity.”

“For heaven’s sake, do not say such things!” cried the Baroness.

“There is nothing else to say.  If you had not taken me in and lodged me and fed me, I should like to know where I should be now.  I am quite sure that my ‘dear mother’ would not care, but I cannot help wondering what is to become of me.  Are you surprised?”

“Are you not provided for here?” The question was put in a tone almost of deprecation.

“Provided for!  I am surrounded with every sort of luxury, when I ought to be working for my living.”

“Working!” The Baroness was filled with horror.  “You, my dear, the daughter of a Roman Prince!  You, working for your living!  You, a Conti!”

Sabina smiled and looked down at her delicate hands.

“I cannot see what my name has to do with it,” she said.  “It is not much to be proud of, considering how my relatives behave.”

“It is a great name,” said the Baroness solemnly and emphatically.

“It was once,” Sabina answered, leaning back in the low chair she had taken, and looking at the ceiling.  “My mother and my brother have not added lustre to it, and I would much rather be called Signorina Emilia Moscetti and be a governess, than be Sabina Conti and live on charity.  I have no right to what I do not possess and cannot earn.”

“My dear child!  This is rank socialism!  I am afraid you talked too long with Malipieri the other night.”

“There is a man who works, though he has what you call a great name,” observed Sabina.  “I admire that.  He was poor, I suppose—­perhaps not so poor as I am—­and he made up his mind to earn his living and a reputation.”