"Well, it concludes nothing, after all," returned Francesca, with much logic. "It does not make a fiend of the poor nun, who is an angel by this time, and it does not make Miss Dalrymple less beautiful. And now, Signor Painter," she added, with another girlish laugh, "if we have quarrelled enough to restore your nerves, I am going out. It is almost dark, and I have to go to the Austrian Embassy before dinner, and the carriage has been waiting for an hour."
"You, princess!" exclaimed Reanda, in surprise; for she had not begun to go into the world yet since her husband's death.
"It is not a reception. We are to meet there about arranging another of those charity concerts for the deaf and dumb."
"I might have known," answered the painter. "As for me, I shall go to the theatre to-night. There is the Trovatore."
"That is a new thing for you, too. But I am glad. Amuse yourself, and tell me about the singing to-morrow. Remember to lock the door and take the key. I do not trust the masons in the morning."
"Do I ever forget?" asked Reanda. "But I will lock it now, as you go out; for it is late, and I shall go upstairs."
"Good night," said Francesca, as she turned to leave the room.
"And you forgive the caricature?" asked Reanda, holding the door open for her to pass.
"I would forgive you many things," she answered, smiling as she went by.