“Anywhere, thank you.  Here, if you wish—­at the corner.  Good-bye.  Do not be too hard on the boy.”

“We shall see,” answered Donna Tullia, unwilling to show too much indulgence.  The old Prince bowed, and walked away into the gloom of the dusky streets.

“That is over,” he muttered to himself.  “I wonder how the Astrardente takes it.”  He would have liked to see her; but he recognized that, as he so very rarely called upon her, it would seem strange to choose such a time for his visit.  It would not do—­it would be hardly decent, seeing that he believed her to be the cause of the catastrophe.  His steps, however, led him almost unconsciously in the direction of the Astrardente palace; he found himself in front of the arched entrance almost before he knew where he was.  The temptation to see Corona was more than he could resist.  He asked the porter if the Duchessa was at home, and on being answered in the affirmative, he boldly entered and ascended the marble staircase—­boldly, but with an odd sensation, like that of a schoolboy who is getting himself into trouble.

Corona had just come home, and was sitting by the fire in her great drawing-room, alone, with a book in her hand, which she was not reading.  She rarely remained in the reception-rooms; but to-day she had rather capriciously taken a fancy to the broad solitude of the place, and had accordingly installed herself there.  She was very much surprised when the doors were suddenly opened wide and the servant announced Prince Saracinesca.  For a moment she thought it must be Giovanni, for his father rarely entered her house, and when the old man’s stalwart figure advanced towards her, she dropped her book in astonishment, and rose from her deep chair to meet him.  She was very pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes that spoke of pain and want of sleep.  She was so utterly different from Donna Tullia, whom he had just left, that the Prince was almost awed by her stateliness, and felt more than ever like a boy in a bad scrape.  Corona bowed rather coldly, but extended her hand, which the old gentleman raised to his lips respectfully, in the manner of the old school.

“I trust you are not exhausted after the ball?” he began, not knowing what to say.

“Not in the least.  We did not stay late,” replied Corona, secretly wondering why he had come.

“It was really magnificent,” he answered.  “There has been no such ball for years.  Very unfortunate that it should have terminated in such an unpleasant way,” he added, making a bold dash at the subject of which he wished to speak.

“Very.  You did a bad morning’s work,” said the Duchessa, severely.  “I wonder that you should speak of it.”

“No one speaks of anything else,” returned the Prince, apologetically.  “Besides, I do not see what was to be done.”

“You should have stopped it,” answered Corona, her dark eyes gleaming with righteous indignation.  “You should have prevented it at any price, if not in the name of religion, which forbids it as a crime, at least in the name of decency—­as being Don Giovanni’s father.”