The only thing that troubled him was the coming interview with Mrs. Verschoyle, for he knew that lady loved him, and if she found out that Carmela was engaged to him, would do anything to stop the marriage. She would fling money, character, even life itself, to attain her ends, such was her passionate temper, and Vassalla knew she was a dangerous adversary. The only chance of getting the better of her was to keep cool, as she invariably lost her head, and gave her adversary time to espy the weak points in her armour, so the Marchese felt tolerably certain of winning the game; but still he had a bad quarter of an hour before him, and did not relish the prospect. "Malediction on these women," he said, stopping in front of the mirror, and admiring himself; "why can't they accept the inevitable, and own themselves beaten? But no, this jade of a Bianca will fight to the last. I rather admire such tenacity of purpose myself, that is when I'm not the opponent in the game." He went to his travelling writing-desk, which was lying on a side table, and, having unlocked it, took out Carmela's last letter, which he read carefully, the result of his reading being anything but pleasant to him. "Wants me to release her," he muttered, throwing down the letter and resuming his walk, "not I--give up the quarry after it has been run to earth? My dear Carmela, you must think me a fool; without your fortune you'd be a pretty prize, but, with it, my faith, it's killing two birds with one stone--come in" as a knock came to the door. "Mrs. Verschoyle!" announced the waiter, showing in that lady, and closed the door after him, leaving the two adversaries face to face with the feeling of battle in the air. Mrs. Verschoyle, as she called herself, though she had no claim to the name, being divorced, was very like Carmela, only, not quite so handsome, while her expression was rather repellent, and her lowering eyebrows and firmly closed mouth warned Matteo Vassalla that she had come with hostile intentions. Matteo was the first to speak, and offered his visitor a chair. "You will be seated, my cousin?" he asked, politely. "When I choose," she said, harshly. Vassalla shrugged his shoulders and produced a silver cigarette case. "As you please," he said, carelessly opening it; "you will smoke?" "No!" "Drink?--there is excellent wine here." "No!--I tell you," she retorted, viciously, "we can dispense with all these formalities, Marchese." "Eh!" with a sudden lifting of the eyebrows, "why so precise, my cousin?" "Because you are a villain!" retorted Mrs. Verschoyle, bringing her fist down on the table. "So!" said Matteo, with a laugh, "perhaps you will give me your reasons for calling me such a name?" "The best of all possible reasons, you deserve it!" "Indeed--the world is not of your opinion." "Bah!--the world does not know you."