It was good, Hera thought, to look upon him; good to hear his voice, good to feel that one admired him. And Donna Beatrice, looking over the rims of her pince-nez, was seized with alarm. Their guest’s discourse might be interesting, she told herself, but she was positive there was nothing in it to command such wrapt attention on the part of her niece. When they had risen, and Mario and Hera were leading the way to the reception hall, she pulled at her brother’s coat sleeve to hold him in the alcoved passage; and, standing there amid the tapestries and trophies of shields and arms, the poor woman made known her doubts and fears. “Riccardo, what does this mean? I say it is most extraordinary.” “Yes, the coffee was not delicious,” he observed. “The cook is drinking absinthe again.” “The coffee! I speak of Hera.” “In what has she offended now?” he inquired, clasping his hands behind him and looking up at an ancestral portrait dim with the centuries. “You ask that?” she rejoined sceptically. “But no; it is impossible that even a man could be so blind. I thank Heaven Antonio Tarsis was not present.” “I always thank Heaven when he is not present,” Don Riccardo confessed, and his sister winced. “What crime has Hera committed?” “On the eve of her marriage she is showing a scandalous interest in a man who is not to be her husband.” Don Riccardo gave a low laugh of depreciation. “Mario Forza saved her life,” he reminded her. “If the fact has slipped your memory, it is not so with Hera.” “I know,” Donna Beatrice argued, “but there are things to remember as well as things not to forget.” “My dear sister, let our girl indulge this natural sentiment of thankfulness.” “Thankfulness?” the other questioned, raising her brows. “And what else? Come, my Beatrice, the strain of this wedding business has wrought upon your nerves. When the fuss is over you must go to the Adriatic for a rest.” She said it was considerate of him, but she did not feel the need of rest. In a corner of the reception hall they found Hera at the piano, Mario beside her, turning the page. They asked him to sing, and he began a ballad of the grape harvest in Tuscany. It pictured the beauty of the rich clusters, the sun-burned cheeks and rugged mirth of the peasant maids, stolen kisses, troths plighted, and the ruby vintage drunk at the wedding feast. The song was manly and sung in a manly voice.