Miss De Grammont took out her handkerchief already wet through with her tears and pressed it to her eyes.
“It is not monstrous,” she said, “but it is most extraordinary. He is an Italian Prince, and I am married to him.”
To use a hackneyed phrase, the room swam around Mr. Fielding for an instant When he recovered he could only sit and gaze at the beautiful woman before him. The details of village life, in Vermont had not educated him up to exigencies of this sort. A fearful chasm seemed to have opened under his feet, and he began to comprehend dimly that there were other lives than his own and that of his estimable but commonplace wife being daily lived out in this world.
“Yes,” said Miss De Grammont, a little more bravely now that the worst shock was over. “That is quite true. And the extraordinary part of it is that they can only have guessed at it; evolved it, as it were from the depths of their inner consciousness, they can't possible have discovered it. It isn't known anywhere, save perhaps to one or two in Italy.”
“In Italy,” murmured the Rev. Mr. Fielding. “You met him in Italy? And why keep it secret? My dear cousin, you have made a great mistake. And all this sad and singular story is true?”
“Very nearly true. All but the offences. They never happened.”
“Your husband is not a political character then?”
“Oh! not in the least. He knows nothing of politics. My José! he couldn't hurt anything, moreover!”
“José is a Spanish name, surely,” said Mr. Fielding.
“His mother was a Castilian, fair and proud as only a Castilian can be. She named him José—But he has other names, three, all Italian—Antonio—”