Two days after the funeral, three people were standing in a room in the Palazzo Capponi, the windows of which looked into a square courtyard, round which ran a covered way, and which for its centre had a slender fountain, with camellias growing round it. The room itself was certainly ugly. The proportions were fine, and some good pictures hung on the walls, but the panels, doors, and ceiling were painted heavily and in bad taste, while the furniture was hideously covered with yellow satin. In the furthest window, an old Italian servant with a brown and wrinkled face sat knitting, and turning her back to the three, who were Bice, Trent, and young Moroni. It was to this last that Bice was talking eagerly in his own language, paying no attention to Trent's looks of annoyance. At this moment the servant brought in a card. "It is Mr Ibbetson," said Bice, after a moment's pause. "Yes; of course we are at home to him." If her colour rose a little, Trent did not see it. He had expected this meeting, but no preparation could subdue the feeling of dismay which seized him. He said sharply,-- "I hope you will not be anything of the sort. You ought not to admit him." "Do you suppose I will allow you to dictate to me?" she said, looking at Trent with flashing eyes. "Your mother is not here," he said, biting his lips. "There is Brigitta--" The servant had retired into the anteroom; Bice was moving towards him, when Trent placed himself before her. "Listen to reason," he said beseechingly. "I tell you I can't promise to keep my temper with this man." "And what do I care!" she retorted. "Are you afraid of him? I don't suppose he comes to see you, and so if you like you can go away. Certainly I shall receive him." The girl had changed in some way or other. Her beauty was, if possible, more remarkable than ever, so large were her eyes, and so curved the lines of her mouth, but instead of the frank and open manner which had been as simple as that of a child, there was noticeable a touch of hard recklessness, of defiance which was almost like despair. Young Moroni, standing by, had also changed. He had grown older, and now looked from one to the other, understanding nothing of the words, but aware that something was amiss, and ready at a sign from Bice to fling himself upon the other man. He, poor fellow, was feeling as if all his old hopes had come to an end. Trent was very pale, but had recovered his coolness. He said scornfully,-- "No, I am not quite such a fool. I imagine the meeting will be less agreeable for him than for me, on the whole. But these knight-errants of yours, my dear Bice, should learn to conduct themselves less offensively when they meddle with what does not concern them. Pray, is this other also to take part in the coming interview?"