"I sha'n't have a cheerful life. The prince belongs to the Blacks. They are always in mourning because of the Pope. They have hardly anything in their set: no dances, no parties. If we got married, I should like him to come to America with me. Their home in the Abruzzi is a lonely, tumble-down castle. His father is a very proud, stand-offish, silent person. I have been told so by ever so many people. What am I to do, Cornélie? I'm very fond of Gilio: his name is Virgilio. And then, you know, the title is an old Italian title: Principe di Forte-Braccio, Duca di San Stefano.... But then, you see, that's all there is to it. San Stefano is a hole. That's where his papa lives. They sell wine and live on that. And olive-oil; but they don't make any money. My father manufactures stockinet; but he has grown rich on it. They haven't many family-jewels. I have made enquiries.... His cousin, the Contessa di Rosavilla, the lady-in-waiting to the queen, is nice ... but we shouldn't see her officially. I shouldn't be able to go anywhere. It does strike me as rather boring."
Cornélie spoke vehemently, blazed out and repeated her phrases: against marriage in general and now against this marriage in particular, merely for the sake of a title. Urania assented: it was merely for the title; but then there was Gilio too, of course: he was so nice and she was fond of him. But Cornélie didn't believe a word of it and told her so straight out. Urania began to cry: she did not know what to do.
"And when were you to go to the prince?"
"This evening."
"Don't go."
"No, no, you're right, I sha'n't go."
"Do you promise me?"
"Yes, yes."
"Don't go, Urania."
"No, I sha'n't go. You're a dear girl. You're quite right: I won't go. I swear to you I won't."