"Oh yes! yes!"—she said, half eager, half timid—"My father lost two brothers—both their names are there."
The ambassador looked at her kindly.—"Well—be proud of it!—be proud of it! That wall, those names, that youth, and death—they remain with me, as the symbol of the other great majesty in the world! There's one,"—he pointed to the dome,—"that's Religion. And the other's Country. It's country that Mr. Manisty forgets—isn't it?"
The old man shook his head, and fell silent, looking out over the cloud-flecked Campagna.
"Ah, well"—he said, rousing himself—"I must go. Will you come and see me?
My daughter shall write to you."
And five minutes later the ambassador was driving swiftly towards Rome, in a good humour with himself and the day. He had that morning sent off what he knew to be a masterly despatch, and in the afternoon, as he was also quite conscious, he had made a young thing happy.
* * * * *
Manisty could not attend the ambassador to his carriage. He was absorbed by another guest. Mrs. Burgoyne, young Brooklyn, and Lucy, paid the necessary civilities.
When they returned, they found a fresh group gathered on the terrace. Two persons made the centre of it—a grey-haired cardinal—and Manisty.
Lucy looked at her host in amazement. What a transformation! The man who had been lounging and listless all the afternoon—barely civil to his guests—making no effort indeed for anyone, was now another being. An hour before he had been in middle age; now he was young, handsome, courteous, animating, and guiding the conversation around him with the practised ease of one who knew himself a master.
Where was the spell? The Cardinal?