“Pardon,” he said curtly. “Miss Roma is my affianced wife. Now I am sure you will give me credit for being aware of her identity.”
“Listen to him!” Jacobelli’s rage boiled over. He appealed to Nathalie and her little group of girl friends, to Mrs. Nevins as she approached them with Ward. “Mr. Ward, I beseech—I demand that you assist me in denouncing this impostor. Is not Carlota Trelango my pupil and the granddaughter of the great Margherita Paoli? Does she not make her début at the Opera next season under Casanova?”
Mrs. Nevins moved forward deliberately, and addressed Carlota.
“Won’t you kindly end this distressing scene, Miss Roma, and leave as soon as possible? I thank you for your services.”
Carlota stood an instant, hesitant and proud. Ames held the little cold hand on his arm in a close grasp. Head up, he was her champion, but it was a question now which adversary to engage first, so many assailed her. In Nathalie’s blue eyes was lurking a challenging ridicule as her gaze met his.
And suddenly D’Istria appeared at the head of the staircase with several friends. He came forward into the salon and bowed low over the hand Carlota extended to him wonderingly, gratefully.
“Oh, Count D’Istria,” she cried eagerly. “You are here!”
Perhaps D’Istria himself sensed the meaning of the silent group around her. He answered gently, deferentially.
“After these years, signorina, it is with the greatest pride for our Italy that I greet you to-night. The last time you were weaving chains of rosebuds at the old Contessa’s knee in the garden of Tittani. Now, I find you wearing a crown of laurel on your own little head.”
Mrs. Nevins caught her breath swiftly, but Jacobelli murmured over and over, pacing the length of the salon alone, as if it gave him the only inward relief, the one word,