“I hope not,” said Sophy, demurely; “but you need not call him Mr. Pandolfini now, Diana. We did so in the old times when we knew no better. But I shall not permit him to give up his title any longer. You might say Count, I think.” “I will say his Lordship, if you like,” said Diana, kissing the unconscious little creature. She smiled, but there was a meaning in her eyes which heedless little Sophy, on the heights of glory and her coronet, understood as little as any child. “You need not laugh,” said the Countess Pandolfini, gravely; “of course it is not the custom here. But I am sure a Count ought to be My Lord in England. It is just the same as an Earl--at least, my title is just the same as Lady Loamshire’s, and far, far older nobility. English lords are nothing in comparison with Italian.” Sophy’s handkerchief, as has been said, was embroidered with a coronet, and so was everything else she had upon which she could have it worked or stamped. It was worth being married for that alone. “I think they are calling for you,” said Diana. “Thank you, little Countess, for coming to me on this great day. All the servants shall be taught to say My Lady when you come to see me at home. Good-bye now: and I hope you will be very happy--and make your husband happy,” Diana added, with an involuntary change of her voice. “Oh, of course we shall be happy! and it will not be long before I shall make Pandolfo bring me to England. Good-bye, good-bye, Diana. Oh, how I wish you were only as happy as I am! I wish there was another Pandolfo for you. Yes, I am coming, aunt; good-bye, good-bye. I shall take your love to him, shall I? Oh yes, I will let you send him your love; and very soon I shall make him bring me to England: and I shall write to you in a few days, and--good-bye, dear Diana, good-bye.” Diana went out upon her balcony to see them go away. The flowers and plants had grown high, and she stood unseen under the shade of the _loggia_. She felt that some one stood beside her as she looked down and watched the grave Italian leading out his gay little bride. What a butterfly Sophy looked, as she fluttered into the carriage which was to convey them to the villa! “Poor little Sophy, too,” said Diana, involuntarily, with a sigh. “Are you sorry for _her_?” said the curate, who had come in unbidden at the door which Sophy had left open. He had not presumed, poor fellow, but he had come and gone with greater confidence, and taken a humble but secure place, half friend, half devoted follower, the last of Diana’s court, since the evening when he made that appeal to her. The rector thought his dear Bill was making way, and that perhaps, after all, the heart might be caught in the rebound. “Are you sorry for _her_?” he said with surprise; “she is not sorry for herself.”