On the very day he gave Elsie the chance to become a Countess, Prince Rontivogli had discovered that Ysobel Ballantyne had decided that she was sufficiently in love with Boughton to take the risk of his not succeeding to the title. Rontivogli was not the man to waste time on impossibilities--indeed, he had no time to waste. He turned away from the beautiful Miss Ballantyne instantly, and with all the ardour of his fiery Southern nature laid siege to Elsie Pope. And, while Elsie was somewhat reserved in her welcome, he found an ally in her father, who thought it would sound extremely well to be able to say, “My daughter, the Princess.” Rontivogli was tall, had a clear, pallid skin, eloquent black eyes, the brow and nose and chin of an Italian patrician, the manners and speech of chivalrous adoration for women which disguise profound contempt for their intelligence. When Frothingham, just returned from New York, and still enshrouded in surly gloom, drove up to Pope’s door, he saw Rontivogli’s cabriolet standing a few yards down the drive. Rontivogli was conducting himself in Washington as if he were rich, so plausibly that only the foreign element was without doubts as to the object of his visit to America. At sight of this trap Frothingham scowled. “What’s that Italian doing here?” he said to himself, and his fear answered the question. When they came face to face in the parlour Elsie greatly enjoyed it. The Italian was smooth and urbane; Frothingham, careless of the feelings of a man he despised and thoroughly English in his indifference to the demands of courtesy to Elsie, was almost uncivil. He and Elsie talked for a few minutes, then she drew Rontivogli into the conversation. The Prince answered in French, and French became the language. Frothingham spoke it far worse than Rontivogli spoke English, so he was practically excluded. He sat dumb and stolid, wondering why “the brute hasn’t the decency to take himself off when I came last.” But “the brute” drew Elsie into a lively discussion on a book he had sent her and, because there was no break in the argument, was seemingly not impolite in lingering. It was almost an hour before he rose, kissed her hand, gave her an adoring look, said “_À bientôt_,” and departed. But, although he was physically gone, he was actually still there--if anything Frothingham was more acutely conscious of him. “I don’t believe Miss Ballantyne could stand that fellow,” he said, aware of his tactlessness, but too angry to care. “I think all those Latins unendurable. They’re a snaky lot and their manners suggest waiters and valets.”