In the late afternoon they rolled into a gloomy terminal station of the French capital. It had been a day of rain clouds with short-lived intervals of clear sky; and while on their way to an obscure but aristocratic hotel on the left bank of the Seine they saw Paris in one of her happiest moments--a period of sunshine between showers. There was an air of gladness about the passing throngs--a momentary lift of spirits imparted by the smiling heavens; the wet pavements glistened, as did the oil-cloths of cabmen and gendarmes, and the moving life everywhere gave forth a lightened resonance. But before they reached the hotel umbrellas were up, and Paris was cross again. So the weather served them nearly every hour of their week’s stay. Tarsis made no effort to reapproach the theme of “tender regard,” and Hera seemed to enter heartily into the enjoyment of the amusements he provided. The opera had no auditor more pleased than she, and when they drove in the Bois--between showers--she saw so many things in the spring’s unfolding, and talked about them so brightly, that Tarsis found himself interested for once in the wonders of nature’s workshop. She had put on the armour of contentment, believing he would perceive that she wore it not only in kindness but from a sense of duty consequent upon the giving of her hand. She believed that he would comprehend as well that it was meant no less for self-defence than for self-effacement. Upon his keenness of intellect she had counted, and not in vain. He read her declaration as clearly as if she had written it in the plainest of Tuscan words: The lot he had chosen was the one by which he must abide; her armour of contentment was so frail that it might be broken by even an essay on his part at disturbing the status quo to which he had agreed. All this he appreciated and made believe to accept as her immutable law. The wedding journey took its course over the English Channel. In London Hera found many letters from Italy. From Aunt Beatrice there were four precisely written pages, over which the sage spinster had spread her dictum, with a fine tone of authority, on the amenities of wifehood. The letter from Don Riccardo breathed tenderness and sympathy, but proved a fresh reminder of the frail nature that was her father’s. He charged her that the Barbiondi were not made for slavery. Never must she sink under the burden of her marriage. If ever it became too heavy to bear with honour she must cast it off, come what might. Well he knew the sacrifice she was making. Was the father’s heart to be deceived because the daughter was too brave to come to him with her trouble? Ah, no! “Beloved Hera,” he went on, “your absence tears my heart. Oh, fate! Why could it not have spared us enough to live in our humble peace? But no--ah, well, why weep over the irreparable? _A chi tocca, tocca._ Is it not so? With my warmest blessing and prayers most ardent for your happiness, I am your affectionate