away, apparently to shut herself up in the solitude of the ancient fortress, for any unknown number of months, and that he might not see her until the autumn, was intolerable.  He knew that by the mere use of his name he could at least make sure that she should know he was at her door, and he determined to make the attempt.  He waited a long time, pacing slowly the broad flagstones beneath the arch of the palace, while the porter himself went up with his card and message.  The fellow had hesitated, but Don Giovanni Saracinesca was not a man to be refused by a servant.  At last the porter returned, and, bowing to the ground, said that the Signora Duchessa would receive him.

In five minutes he was waiting alone in the great drawing-room.  It had cost Corona a struggle to allow him to be admitted.  She hesitated long, for it seemed like a positive wrong to her husband’s memory, but the woman in her yielded at last; she was going away on the following morning, and she could not refuse to see him for once.  She hesitated again as she laid her hand upon the latch of the door, knowing that he was in the room beyond; then at last she entered.

Her face was very pale and very grave.  Her simple gown of close-fitting black set off her height and figure, and flowed softly in harmony with her stately movements as she advanced towards Giovanni, who stood almost awestruck in the middle of the room.  He could not realise that this dark sad princess was the same woman to whom less than a month ago he had spoken such passionate words, whom he had madly tried to take into his arms.  Proud as he was, it seemed presumptuous in him to think of love in connection with so royal a woman; and yet he knew that he loved her better and more truly than he had done a month before.  She held out her hand to him, and he raised it to his lips.  Then they both sat down in silence.

“I had despaired of ever seeing you again,” said Giovanni at last, speaking in a subdued voice.  “I had wished for some opportunity of telling you how sincerely I sympathise with you in your great loss.”  It was a very formal speech, such as men make in such situations.  It might have been better, but he was not eloquent; even his rough old father had a better command of language on ordinary occasions, though Giovanni could speak well enough when he was roused.  But he felt constrained in the presence of the woman he adored.  Corona herself hardly knew how to answer.

“You are very kind,” she said, simply.

“I wish it were possible to be of any service to you,” he answered.  “I need not tell you that both my father and myself would hold it an honour to assist you in any way.”  He mentioned his father from a feeling of delicacy; he did not wish to put himself forward.

“You are very kind,” repeated Corona, gravely.  “I have not had any annoyance.  I have an excellent man of business.”

There was a moment’s pause.  Then she seemed to understand that he was embarrassed, and spoke again.