It was a day of surprises, and not the least of them fell to Zoe’s share. She was standing on the verandah in the afternoon, awaiting eagerly the return of Maurice and Wylie with full details of the defeat, when a carriage drove up to the door, and a slender black-robed figure descended. It was Donna Olimpia Pazzi, and when she saw Zoe looking down at her she made her an eager sign.
“Please don’t call the servants. It is you I am come to see,” she said breathlessly, and hastened up the steps. “I have brought you a book and a message from the Princess,” she went on, still in the same hurried way. “No, not the Princess Dowager—my own Princess, Princess Emilia—a book of poems, which she submits with humility to your matured judgment—they are her own, of course—and hopes that your friendship will justify her boldness. That was my excuse for getting leave to come, but I had something to say to you.”
“Yes?” said Zoe. “Do sit down. Is anything the matter?”
“I will not sit down,” said the girl, with something like defiance. “Forgive me——” she broke off hastily. “I am in great trouble, and I must tell some one. You will not betray me?”
“Certainly not,” said Zoe, much surprised. “Your secret will be safe with me.”
“It is not my own secret only, but I can trust you. Last week you refused a proposal of marriage from the Prince—from Romanos Christodoridi?”
“Most certainly I refused him, though I have no idea how you heard anything about it.” Zoe spoke coldly. “I regarded his proposal as an insult, since he knew I was already engaged.”
“It was a greater insult than you imagined. He is my husband.”
“Your husband—married to you? When? How long——?”
“At Bashi Konak, when he was there wounded. In my Princess’s private chapel, by her chaplain. She was present, and the Princess Dowager.”