His words had given me material for a half-amused, half-scared reflection—the mood which the neighborhood of Lady Dundrannan—and much more the possibility of any conflict with Lady Dundrannan—always aroused in me. Sir Paget’s letter had reflected—in a humor slightly spiced with restiveness—the present relations between Cragsfoot and Briarmount. What would they be with me in residence, and presently in possession? With me and my family there, as Godfrey Frost said? My family which did not exist at present! But I did not sit there reflecting. I paid for our refreshments—Godfrey, in his preoccupation, had omitted even to offer to do so—and went back to the _palazzo_. Old Amedeo waylaid me in the hall and told me that Donna Lucinda had requested me to pay her a visit as soon as I returned from the funeral; but he prevented me from obeying her invitation for a few minutes. He was in a state of exultation that had to find expression. “Ah, what a funeral! You saw me there? No! But I was, of course. A triumph! The name of Valdez will stand high in Venice henceforth! Oh, I don’t like Panizzi and that lot, any more than Father Garcia does. My sympathies are clerical. None the less, it was remarkable! Alas, what wouldn’t Don Arsenio have done if he hadn’t been cut off in his youth!” That was a question which I felt—and feel—quite incapable of answering, save in the most general and non-committal terms. “Something astonishing!” I said with a nod, as I dodged past the broad barrier of Amedeo’s figure and succeeded in reaching the staircase. Right up to the top of the tall old house I had to go this time—past Father Garcia and his noble “Black” friends, past the scene of the banquet and the scene of the catastrophe. I think that Lucinda must have been listening for my steps; she opened the door herself before I had time to knock on it. She was back in the needlewoman’s costume now—her black frock, with her shawl about her shoulders. Perhaps this attire solved the problem of mourning in the easiest way; or perhaps it was a declaration of her intentions. I did not wait to ask myself that; the expression of her face caught my immediate attention. It was one of irrepressible amusement—of the eager amusement which seeks to share itself with another appreciative soul. She caught me by the hand, and drew me in, leading me through the narrow passage to the door of her sitting room—much of a replica of Arsenio’s on the floor below, though the ceiling was less lofty and the windows narrower. Then I saw what had evoked the expression on her face. Between the windows, propped up against the discolored old hangings on the wall, stood the largest wreath of _immortelles_ which I have ever seen on or off a grave, in or out of a shop window; and, occupying about half of the interior of the circle, there was a shield, or plaque, of purple velvet—Oh, very sumptuous!—bearing an inscription in large letters of gold: