“Arrest the man in there!” she shouted, pointing toward Palazzo Barbiondi. “He takes the life-blood of children! He works them to death in the factories; pays them fifteen _soldi_ a day! The children die, but he lives on in his grand house! Who pays for it?” she shrieked, facing the crowd and waving her upraised arms. “We do, comrades; we----” A tirade against his Majesty’s host, within hearing almost of the distinguished man himself, was not to be permitted, and, weary of admonishing her, the Civil Guard lugged La Ferita off to the Questura. Tarsis and Donna Beatrice went to a window and peered up the Corso, but there was no sign of the royal equipage, no flutter in the crowd to denote its coming. Although the daylight was failing, they could still see the city gate and Sandro in the motor car, stationed there, charged to bear word as soon as the King and Queen were sighted, that the host and hostess might have time to go down to the portico to receive them. To this part of the function Tarsis had looked forward eagerly. He had even rehearsed the scene, going through the act of bowing low to the Queen and offering her his arm, while in imagination his wife, on the King’s arm, led the way up the staircase. “I was not prepared to see Mario Forza here,” Donna Beatrice said to Tarsis, compressing her lips and patting one hand with her closed fan. “It is by the King’s wish,” he told her. “Strange!” “Oh, no,” he explained. “A political consideration. I hope no accident has prevented his Majesty from coming.” “It is only that athletic exhibition, I am positive,” she said. “As he is to distribute the prizes I suppose he cannot leave graciously until the bore is at an end. I was at one once. The waits between the events were the chief feature. If there is anything that would delight to keep a king waiting it is an athletic exhibition.” But Tarsis did not hear. His attention was held by a dialogue at his shoulders between a man who leaned against the lintel and one who stood within the room. “There are two sorts of women you must not know,” said the nearer man. “They are the women who love you and the women who do not.” “You are right. I know; I have suffered.” “You make a mistake to suffer,” the first speaker continued. “If a woman insults you, bow to her. If she strikes you, protect yourself. If she deceives you, say nothing for fear of compromising her. Kill yourself, if you please, but suffer--never!” “To this point I agree with you,” said his companion: “Some life should pay--yours, hers or his.” The other shrugged his shoulders. “That, of course, is a matter of taste.” Tarsis had glanced quickly at the men and turned his back again. Now he stood staring into the rain of the fountain in the court below, his hard face set like stone, preoccupied darkly with what he had heard. So deep was his absorption that he failed to hear Donna Beatrice exclaim that the King was approaching.