“‘Prince Luigi Saviola.’
“He stared at me in surprise, in distress.
“‘Prince Luigi Saviola!’ he echoed, without withdrawing his fixed gaze from my face.
“‘Yes, dear father,’ I answered, wondering at the emotion, or rather at the panic, into which my words had thrown him.
“‘Oh, my poor child! Oh, my dear child! And here you have been controlling and concealing your own great sorrow to listen to me and to sympathize with my lighter ones. Oh, my poor Elfrida! My poor, poor girl!’ he breathed at last, with a voice full of distress and compassion that I felt sure he must have heard of Saviola’s Parisian marriage, and was grieving over it more than I was for myself. I felt that I must try to comfort him.
“‘Do not take it to heart, dear father,’ I said. ‘Look at me! I do not appear to be dying of despair, do I? Do not grieve for me, since I do not grieve for myself. Let us, from time to time, live for each other. You, dear, dear father! have had a great sorrow which you bear like a Christian. I have had a humiliating disappointment and a wholesome lesson; though like most of the teachings of experience, the lesson comes too late to do the pupil any good. But from this time I will forget my trouble and live for you.’
“He was still staring at me with more wonder and amazement than before.
“‘I had not the remotest suspicion that it was Luigi Saviola whom you had married,’ he murmured, as if speaking to himself. Then after another long, speculating look at me, he inquired:
“‘Elfrida, my darling, how came you to marry this young man—was your act a mere whim, a childish freak, or could you really have loved him?’
“I saw by his whole manner that there was some afterthought in my father’s mind that I did not comprehend; but I answered him: