On looking back, however, she had to acknowledge that his manner had undergone a radical change.  He no longer alarmed her by aggressive pursuit, nor sought to lead the conversation to those personal topics which she had found so repellent.  Furthermore, he never alluded to the threat he had made to her that day at the hunt, nor even mentioned his rejected suit.  And yet she felt apprehensively that he had not given up his original determination.

In the meantime he was untiring in his efforts to interest her, and evinced an ability to keep the conversation going with great skill—­even more skill than Giovanni, whose natural attractiveness could afford to do without the effort that Scorpa found necessary.  He flattered her by his assumption that she was a woman of the world, and he disguised the exaggeration of his expressions in such a way that she thought he was speaking but the barest truth.  For instance, he dilated upon the particular qualities for which Nina herself adored the princess, until it became apparent to her that, after all, Scorpa must be a man of sensitive perceptions.

Nevertheless, the underlying feeling of terror with which he filled her at the first moment of each encounter was far worse than mere dislike.  Intuitively, she regarded him as a menace, and, through his unvarying politeness, she found herself trying to fathom his real intentions.  What object could he have had in ranging himself with the suitors for her hand?  He was very rich himself.  Aside from his own fortune, “poor Jane”—­as every one called his first wife—­had left a handsome amount, which, according to European custom, was entirely in his control.  Perhaps he wanted still more money, and thought that he could find in her another source of supply to be exhausted and practically thrust aside.  Many tales that Nina had heard, many things that she had observed were not good for the girl’s all too ready cynicism—­and the hard little lines around her mouth that the princess so disliked to see, were growing deeper.

The question of international marriage was one on which Nina found herself becoming quite skeptical.  She admitted that there were happy examples.  Her aunt, for instance.  Surely no wife was ever more loved and appreciated than the princess, even though her husband had one serious failing.  But then, did not some American husbands also gamble?

In the Masco household too, the bonny Kate was certainly in no need of sympathy.  That her position was not as good as her husband’s name should have given her was her own fault.  She was not one of those gifted with the chameleon faculty of harmonizing with her background.  Among the mellow pigments of the Roman canvas she was a glaring splotch of primary color.  But she was far from unhappy.

Indeed, so far as Nina’s observation could penetrate, the general impression of the average Americo-Italian marriage was of sympathetic comradeship between husband and wife; in nearly every household she had found the indescribably charming atmosphere of a harmonious home.