In that stream of Lombard aristocracy was Hera’s father, with Donna Beatrice by his side, and many like them--men bearing noble names who owed much to the peasant-born Tarsis. He had swollen their fortunes by casting them for lucrative parts in the drama that had attracted so many gentlemen of quality--the drama of the factory, the bank, the steamship line. Their families made up the fashionable world of Milan. Most of them had grand dwellings in town and villas on the Lakes or in the Brianza; they entertained with radiant hospitality, drove blooded horses, and stirred the dust of country roads with their automobiles. Most of them were willing to forget their titles. They belonged to the group that was fast going away from old ideas; the notions their fathers respected, and which they too once respected, seemed to them absurd and ridiculous. Hera was gowned in something that shimmered softly like the petals of a tea rose. What happened before the day was over caused the journals to give a more circumstantial account of the reception than they might have done otherwise. One of the chroniclers thus pictured Hera as she stood, Tarsis at her side, receiving the guests, with Heribert and his slashing warriors for a background: “Her deep grey eyes were full of life and expression. She moved with marvellous grace. Her voice was sweet and melodious. Never had anyone seen in the person of one woman so much charm, so much beauty, united with such brightness of intellect. She was graceful without affectation, witty without malice, and captivating to every guest.” The Honourable Mario Forza was among the last to appear. He came in with the Cardinal, a hale man of sixty, with kindly blue eyes. As they drew near Hera felt her blood ebb and flow and her breath catch. The elder man was the first to be greeted, and while he paid her some hearty compliments Mario stood alone, for Tarsis did not offer his hand. When the Cardinal had moved away, and they were face to face, Hera noted with a sinking heart that the rugged glow had gone from his cheeks, and from his eyes the boyish lustre that had reflected a soul without bitterness. “It is a pleasure for which I am indebted to His Majesty,” he said, as they clasped hands, and their glances met. “I am glad to see you again,” she returned, while Tarsis, his back to the oncoming guests, held her and the other in full survey. So intent was he watching them that the Mayor of Milan, a rotund little man, who stood in full regalia waiting to be noticed, was obliged to cough diplomatically once or twice. The hosts turned to receive the Mayor, and Forza, with a ceremonious bow, joined the Cardinal and passed on to mingle with the throng.