The guests walked and chatted or stood in groups, awaiting the coming of the King. There were staff officers of the garrison in gold lace; poor noblemen of leisure and rich ones in trade, both with their ribbons and the latter with jewelled stars of knighthood; municipal dignitaries in showy insignia of office; Senators and Deputies of the several political shades; dowagers plump or scrawny, spangled with gems, and matrons more youthful in smart gowns. Then there were the amusing men and women who did not profess to be anybody in particular, yet the sort that fashionable Milan was glad to have at its receptions. In time the clatter of tongues filled the broad corridors as well as the great chamber, and resounded cheerfully in the gardens, now rich with the foliage, the blossoms, and fragrance of May. Mario and the Cardinal joined those of the company who had sought the cooler air, where fountains played and magnolias cast their shadows on statuary. A close friendship had grown with the prelate and the statesman. The man of the Church had taken to his heart easily the man of the World whom he found combating a common foe. Once he had said to him, “Caro Forza, the New Democracy is an ally in the campaign for His kingdom.” At the angle of a shaded avenue, they met Hera on the arm of Colonel Rosario. In genuine enthusiasm the Cardinal gave his felicitations on the return of a Barbiondi to the ancestral home, and Mario spoke to her of the beauty of the palace and gardens. “Colonel Rosario will not agree with you, Signor Forza,” she said. “He deplores it all.” “Pardon, Donna Hera,” the old soldier protested. “I have not been quoted accurately, as the politicians say. Deplore all? Far from that. In truth, my regret is for only one thing--the restoration.” “Why?” asked the Cardinal. “Because, the restoration has taken unto itself the charm of the old place.” “Indeed?” the prelate inquired, looking up at the scoured and scraped walls. “And has so much been lost in this refinding?” “Yes, your Eminence,” the soldier assured him, as they walked away together, the man of the sword bemoaning the passage of old Italy and he of the red robe answering that all which is of time must go with time. Thus it fell out that Mario and Hera, standing there at the turn of the path beside the southern wall, for a moment found themselves alone. He approached at once the subject of the marriage that had torn their hearts. “You said that Colonel Rosario deplored it all,” he began, repeating her words. “I interpret that as an expression of your remorse for what--you have done. I should not refer to the affair but for the lingering hope that other than a sordid motive impelled you. Must you tell me,” he went on, a suggestion of contempt in his tone, “that you broke faith with me because you could not resist the pomp of great wealth--that you preferred it to my love?”