"... he doesn't like."
"... At New York."
"... dommage, dommage."
"... dommage."
The song dwindles and dies away. The Mass is not yet finished; but all rise to leave, almost precipitately, while the priest is still kneeling at the foot of the altar for the last ejaculatory prayers. The church is at once deserted. Beneath the portico in the bright noontide the Archduchess stopped for a moment, her niece silently beside her. Both collectors have deposited their money in the sacristy. Already it is known that Mabel Clarke has gathered eight thousand francs, made up for the most part of American cheques. Mabel Clarke is among the respectful circle of ladies that has been formed before the Archduchess. The Princess turns to her with a brief smile, as if summoning her to her. The American girl advances, blushing with complacency.
"You have done much for the church, Miss Clarke," said the Archduchess slowly.
Then, after a moment, with perfect Christian humility, she added:
"Please thank Mrs. Clarke, too, for her generosity."
There is a large princely leave-taking round the Archduchess Maria Annunziata. The ladies make deep curtseys, and for a moment the little square resembles a royal salon. Before even the two Archduchesses have got into their carriage, Mabel Clarke has taken leave of her American friends, and she sets off with Don Vittorio Lante by the longest way that climbs from the Dorf to the "Palace." At a certain point Mabel Clarke opens her white cambric parasol, and the two young heads disappear.