“In the end? Oh, bravo!” she exclaimed, in a pretty effort of raillery. “This modesty! It is most amusing! Why, the end is already attained. Let me tell you something: At this moment your wife is exceedingly fond of you.” “Do you know this?” he asked, a covetous gleam in his eye. “As well as I know that you are her husband.” “Has she told you so?” “Yes.” “Ha! What did she say?” “She has not spoken by word of mouth. Ah, no. A woman has other ways of revealing such a secret. Take the word of a woman of experience who knows how to look into the heart of her sex.” “Have you looked into my wife’s heart?” “Yes.” “And did you see there, for example, Mario Forza?” Donna Beatrice emitted a low, gurgling titter. “Oh, my dear friend! How little you understand womankind.” “Did you hear what she said before the picture of Heribert?” “Every syllable.” “Couldn’t you see that it was Forza talking?” She gave him a depreciatory glance. “How interesting! That one so keen in all else should be in an affair like this so--so--well, so short-sighted! To be sure, the Forza fever lingers,” she explained, “but it is merely running its course.” “Perhaps you are right,” he said, his self-love overcoming doubt. “Right? Let us reflect. She realises what a narrow escape she had from that sickness. Still, a woman does not surrender too easily. Our Hera is no fool. How can she, in the light of reason--in any light--prefer Mario Forza to Antonio Tarsis? The idea is absurd.” * * * * * At dinner Hera, queenly in a gown that effected the complement of her own beautiful coloring, was gracious, kindly, captivating. Like an actress who had played a rôle many times, she was settling into her part. To the land of self-conceit where Tarsis dwelt the voice of this human heart did not penetrate; he heard only its delusive echo. Even the clear admonition she had sounded at Paris failed to weigh now against his self-exaltation and the false notion that Donna Beatrice had planted in his mind. Thus it fell out that when Don Riccardo and his sister had taken themselves away he said to her, while they lingered at the window, looking upon the lights of the Corso: “It affords me infinite pleasure, my wife, to see you so happy.” “All the worldly means are at hand,” she responded, in the manner of one conceding a point, “and I should be lacking in a sense of values if I were not content. You can do no more, Antonio.” “It is all paltry enough,” he declared, in a sudden burst of feeling, “when I reflect that it is done for you. There is nothing that I would not do for your sake.” With the words he caught up her hand and kissed it fervidly. She did not turn her eyes from the window or withdraw her hand; for a moment he stood holding it, looking into her averted face, like one who had asked a question and was awaiting the answer.