"But, yes!" She shrugged her shoulders lightly. "For a time, until my mourning's over. It's a quiet spot, Fiesole, and I am very attached to my sister. Then I shall go to live in Rome." "And your life begins?" He guessed her thought. "Chi lo sa?" But her eyes were bright. "At any rate, it's farewell to Siena! In Rome one can live as one likes." "May I come and see you there?" Impulsively she turned to him. "Mais je crois bien!--For as long as you can. I shall be proud of my handsome nephew. And then, caro mio, I will find you a wife." She nodded her head with an air of wisdom. "Some beautiful Roman. Let me think ... There is Princess Doria's only girl--the Principe was my mother's cousin--and Donna Maria Archiveschi...? Well--we shall choose, you and I." A sudden thought sprang into her brain. Why not Bianca?--her sister's child. What an excellent match it would be for her--as soon as she should leave the convent. Moreover, it would suit the Marchesa. She would have a double right of entry in the Maramonte family circle and indulge to the full her love of intrigue. Following up this train of thought, she smiled sweetly at McTaggart. "You could not spare me one week now?--a little week before you return ...? At Fiesole--just think again. To abandon your poor aunt at once--one sees you do not care for her! ... Just seven days, Pietro mio, to leave me happily settled there?" She drew back her veil and her velvet eyes, like darkest pansies, pleaded mutely. McTaggart summoned all his strength, conjuring up Cydonia. "_Please_ don't make it any harder! I'd love to come, you know that. It's not every day in one's life one ... inherits such a perfect aunt!" He smiled at her with real affection. "I'll come back when you're at Rome--(and not alone!" he said to himself). "But I'm bound to return to England first and settle up my business there." "You talk as if you kept a shop!" She shrugged her shoulders pettishly. "What does the Marquis Maramonte want with commissions on the 'Bourse'?" He laughed outright with the memory of her disgusted, lovely face when he had told her of his profession. "Fi donc!" Mischievous, she shook a slender finger at him. "It would make poor Gino turn in his grave." "And serve him right!" was McTaggart's thought. He could not forgive the dead man for his heartless treatment of his sister. He had the Italian's centuries-deep love of justice and liberty and was not without a strain of revenge, the lingering trace of some far-off "Vendetta." He sat there moody, his mouth hard; grimly glad that the scales of fate had weighed in favour of his rise into the power denied to her. The sun, sinking toward the hills, plunged the city walls in shadow as they drove through the Porta Romana and past the great church of the Servites. Then, winding round the ancient market, they emerged into the open "Campo"--that curious shell-shaped piazza where throbs the heart of old Siena.