* * * * * *
"I am so glad," cried Bianca, some ten minutes later, giving me a hug, "I am so glad it is you and not that bad-tempered Costanza."
"We are all glad," said the old Marchese, holding out his hand with a smile, while Romeo and his mother stood bearing their defeat with commendable grace.
* * * * * *
So it came to pass that on the evening of that wonderful day Andrea and I, instead of being borne by express trains to Genoa and Leghorn respectively, were pacing the gallery arm in arm in the sunlight.
We had been engaged in this occupation for about an hour, and now he knew all about my mother and sisters, and the details of the happy life at Islington.
"We will live in England, but every year we will come to Italy," he was saying, as we paused before the Bronzino, which seemed to have taken in the situation.
"I love Italy more than any place in the world," I answered.
A pause.