Poor Pandolfini! He knew no more than the least interested passer-by the disastrous business his English friend was doing for him a little later on--nor how his fate was getting decided, and all the miraculous sweetness over which he was brooding, being turned to gall. He waited through all the long morning, remembering English habits, with a shrug of his shoulders, till “luncheon”--mysterious word!--should be over; reflecting, perhaps not quite justly as he did so, on the portentous English appetite which demanded two meals so early in the day. Then, with a heart which did something more than beat, which gave leaps and bounds against his breast, and then paused breathless to recover itself, he rushed up the long stairs. Diana was on her balcony as he approached, and after a little wave of her hand to him, disappeared suddenly. What did that mean? His heart sank, then bounded again with excitement, anxiety, suspense. He rushed up to the Hunstantons’ second floor like a whirlwind, and found himself in his friend’s room, breathless, speechless, breaking in, he supposed, like a thief. “Well?”--all the breath left in him, and all the fever of emotion, came forth in the one word. “My dear fellow!” cried Mr. Hunstanton, with both hands held out, “my dear Pandolfini! I congratulate you! Well?--yes, of course, all’s well as I told you. They are as pleased as possible--say they never thought of such a thing, as all women do--but feel sure there never was anybody so good, and so perfect and delightful. Bless you, I knew it! They are as happy as you are, all in a flutter; and you are to go up at once.” Pandolfini’s eager countenance was as a gamut of all emotions as his friend spoke--the blank of utter anxiety, the leap of hasty delight, the cloud of doubt: and withal a touch of fastidious and troubled dissatisfaction impossible to describe. He grasped and held Hunstanton’s hand, holding himself up by them, body and soul, and gazing at him with eyes that grew almost terrible in the strain. “_They!_” he said, still breathless, with a long-drawn gasp, in a voice husky with agitation. “They? Who is--the other?” “My dear fellow! You to ask such a thing with your Italian notions! Of course, her aunt! You might have done it, being the lover; but you don’t suppose I, an ambassador, could have made my proposals to little Sophy all alone! Love has turned your head.” Pandolfini dropped his friend’s hands: a sudden darkness seemed to come over him and swallow him up. He staggered to the window, and stood there silent for a moment, looking blankly out. CHAPTER XIII. A SURPRISE.