Teresa came at last and tried to calm her.
“Signorina! signorina!” she exclaimed, stroking the dark hair, which, unbound, fell upon her shoulders. “Your eyes will look so red. Oh, surely you should be happy to-day!”
“Happy!” groaned the unfortunate girl bitterly, as she slowly staggered to her feet. “There is no happiness for me—none—none.”
At last the pale-faced girl, summoning up all the courage she possessed, seated herself before the mirror, and having allowed Teresa to dress her hair for the bridal, proceeded, with the help of Santina, her mother’s maid, her mother, and Vi Walters—who was one of the wedding guests—to put on the gown with its wonderful train and real orange-blossoms from the orangery at San Donato.
Meanwhile, however, in the study below, Camillo Morini was sitting with his enemy, Angelo Borselli, who had practically invited himself on a flying visit to the ceremony, and whom he could not well refuse without giving him a direct insult. Morini hated the man who had ever been his evil genius, but in the present circumstances dared not openly quarrel with him. Therefore he treated him with diplomatic friendliness.
They were smoking their cigars together when Dubard, elegantly dressed, entered merrily, and greeted them. Borselli had only arrived late on the previous night, therefore he had not seen him before.
“Well, my friend!” cried the Sicilian, “I congratulate you. You will have the best of wives in all the world—and the best of fathers-in-law, that I’m sure.”
“Ah, I’m certain I shall,” replied the bridegroom. “But what great preparations are being made!”
“Half the country will be here to the reception later on,” Morini remarked, laughing.
“Where is your secretary—Macbean?” inquired Dubard.