He had accustomed himself to meeting difficulties promptly, and turning apparent disadvantage to a factor of self-service. Now he reflected--and the thought gleamed shrewdly in his half-closed eyes--that this ember of peril might be smothered with a few handfuls of those coins, which were his by right of conquest, though the growing madness of the time found them so ignoble. Indeed, it was an excellent idea--this one of his wife--to throw a bone to the snarling dogs. He would give her charitable whim his countenance, even his unstinted support. He would let his wife scatter largesse among the malcontents; let her shine as the doer of good deeds, but the world would know--the house of Barbiondi had no name for wealth--the workers would applaud Antonio Tarsis, friend of the poor. Moreover, this co-operation would place his wife under an obligation to him, give her one more proof of his desire to gratify her every wish. So he said to her, at the moment that the train entered the suburbs of Milan: “I count it noble of you, Hera, to have a care for the unfortunate. A little thought convinces me that you are right in your view. There are times when we should not stop to reason why.” “I am glad that we can see alike in this,” she said. “There is joy, I know, in giving.” “And I wish to be in accord with you. Believe me, you have my warmest sympathy in whatever work you contemplate. As to funds, I need not tell you that my fortune is at your disposal.” “You are most generous; I thank you,” she said, and told him of the plan conceived in London. In the station they saw Don Riccardo and his sister coming down the platform to welcome them. “_Babbo!_” Hera cried out before her father caught sight of her, and the next moment she was in his arms. “Ah, truant!” he said, holding her hands and swinging them, while he looked into her eyes as if to read their secret. “I have you again. And you come to stay. Is it not so, my treasure?” “You may be sure of that, _babbo_!” she laughed, and turned to receive her aunt’s caresses. “Here I am and here I stay. Long live Italia is my song, and I think Antonio will join in the chorus.” “With all my heart!” Tarsis said genially, his hopes taking a sudden bound. It was the first time she had addressed him by his Christian name. Never had anyone seen Hera in better spirits. It was good to be once more in the land she loved, to hear again the familiar “minga” and “lu” of her native patter; but the real inspiration of her gladness, although the fact did not appear to her mind, was that she had come to dwell in the city whose walls enclosed Mario Forza, and whose air he breathed. Aunt Beatrice accepted her lightness of heart triumphantly as a tribute to her own splendid work as a matchmaker. Tarsis’s automobile awaited them, and they got in, all four. Hera noted that the crest of her house was painted none too small on the olive green sides of the car.