“She has always been so,” replied the Countess. “Young people are like that nowadays; there is no more youth.” “Do you not think,” continued the Baron, “that perhaps there is another cause for that sadness--some interest in some one, for example?” “Alba?” exclaimed the mother. “For whom?” “For Dorsenne,” returned Hafner, lowering his voice; “he just left five minutes ago, and you see she is no longer interested in anything nor in any one.” “Ah, I should be very much pleased,” said Madame Steno, laughing. “He is a handsome fellow; he has talent, fortune. He is the grand-nephew of a hero, which is equivalent to nobility, in my opinion. But Alba has no thought of it, I assure you. She would have told me; she tells me everything. We are two friends, almost two comrades, and she knows I shall leave her perfectly free to choose.... No, my old friend, I understand my daughter. Neither Dorsenne nor any one else interests her, unfortunately. I sometimes fear she will go into a decline, like her cousin Andryana Navagero, whom she resembles.... But I must cheer her up. It will not take long.” “A Dorsenne for a son-in-law!” said Hafner to himself, as he watched the Countess walk toward Alba through the scattered groups of her guests, and he shook his head, turning his eyes with satisfaction upon his future son-in-law. “That is what comes of not watching one’s children closely. One fancies one understands them until some folly opens one’s eyes!... And, it is too late!... Well, I have warned her, and it is no affair of mine!” In spite of Fanny’s observed and increasing vexation Ardea amused himself by relating to her anecdotes, more or less true, of the goings-on in the Vatican. He thus attempted to abate a Catholic enthusiasm at which he was already offended. His sense of the ridiculous and that of his social interest made him perceive how absurd it would be to go into clerical society after having taken for a wife a millionaire converted the day before. To be just, it must be added that the Countess’s dry champagne was not altogether irresponsible for the persistency with which he teased his betrothed. It was not the first time he had indulged in the semi-intoxication which had been one of the sins of his youth, a sin less rare in the southern climates than the modesty of the North imagines. “You come opportunely, Contessina,” said he, when Mademoiselle Steno had seated herself upon the couch beside them. “Your friend is scandalized by a little story I have just told her.... The one of the noble guard who used the telephone of the Vatican this winter to appoint rendezvous with Guilia Rezzonico without awakening the jealousy of Ugolino.... But it is nothing. I have almost quarrelled with Fanny for having revealed to her that the Holy Father repeated his benediction in Chapel Sixtine, with a singing master, like a prima donna....”