THAT Mario and Hera were taken in by the counterfeit despair and make-believe submission of Tarsis proved how little they knew the man with whom they had to deal. Tarsis had as much thought of giving up Hera as he had of parting with his life. In the last words spoken to him by Mario--“She is not to be your wife”--he knew that he had heard the declaration of a resolute strike against his fondest design; and to set about breaking it by means of craft instead of open resistance was only the instinctive recourse of a character schooled in devices. The art of throwing the antagonist off his guard had become a second nature with him. Always this was the first move he made in a fight with his fellow-man. He had achieved his earlier successes in the business world by causing powerful rivals to despise him--to regard him as a factor not worth reckoning with. He had won victories by feigning acceptance of defeat. He hated failure as a shark hates the land. All over Italy the wedding day had been heralded, and he was determined that the marriage should take place. Labour unions with which he had to do knew something of his granite will when set to the breaking of a strike. While he moved toward the villa, holding the motor car to the pace of Hera’s horse, he had time to think out the details of his plan. Arrived at the villa, a maid informed Hera that Donna Beatrice was absent in Milan. As to Don Riccardo, the serving woman said, _Gh’e minga_, which is the Lombardian equivalent for “not about” or “missing.” He had set out on horseback in the direction of Lodi a half-hour before. Sadly Hera reflected that with her father, whom she loved for his endearing frailties, it had always been _G’he minga_. She knew his soul rebelled against the alliance with Tarsis, but that he lacked the strength to put away the cup of ease it held to his lips. She had hoped that he would be at hand now, as one at least in the household to rejoice at the course she had chosen. She noted that the news of their being alone brought a gleam of satisfaction to the eyes of Tarsis. When they entered the reception hall the old sternness had settled on his countenance, replacing the broken-spirited humility that had moved her so deeply in the chapel. “I hope it will not be presuming on your favour,” were his opening words, “if I ask you for light on one or two points?” “No,” she answered. “It is your right. I wish to be frank--to tell you all.” “How long have you been under the influence of this man?” “The question is unfair to him and to me,” she said. “I will answer any question that you have a right to ask, but I will not quarrel with you.” Tarsis rose from where he was seated, walked the width of the room and back, and when he spoke again his manner was milder. “How long have you known him?” he inquired. “We met last week for the first time. It was on the day the bridge broke.” “Do you think it just to me that you have kept the affair secret?”