‘I did not wish to spoil your pleasure; there is no reason why you shouldn’t be happy. If all goes well, a year from now you will be one of the notable heiresses of America. I only hope, when you’re enjoying your wealth, that you’ll not think of the poor starving wretches in Italy who gave it to you.’ Copley’s tone was as brutal as his words. He had forgotten the girl before him; he was talking to the man in America. Marcia turned away and, with a deep sob, sank down by the table and buried her face in her arms. Sybert threw up his head quickly with a glance of anger, and Copley suddenly came to his senses. He sprang forward and laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Marcia, don’t cry about it! I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m nervous and excited and worried. It isn’t as bad as I told you.’ Marcia had a pitiable sense that she was acting like a child when, of all times, she ought to be calm and think. But the sudden revulsion of feeling had swept her away. She had indeed been living in a fools’ paradise the past few months! The poor people Sybert had told her of yesterday—the starving thousands in Naples—her own father was the cause. And the peasants of Castel Vivalanti—no wonder they hated her; while she distributed chocolate with such graceful condescension, her father was taking away their bread. She thought over her uncle’s words, and then, as she realized their content, she suddenly rose, and faced the two men. ‘Uncle Howard,’ she said, ‘I think you’ve done very wrong not to tell me this before. I had a right to know, and I could have helped it. My father loves his business, but he loves me better. It’s true, as I say, he’s just doing it as a sort of problem. He doesn’t see the suffering he causes, and he doesn’t really believe there is any. Of course he knows that some people lose when he gains, but he thinks that they go into it with their eyes open, and that they must accept the chances of war. He’s exactly as good a man as either of you.’ And then, as a sudden recollection flashed across her, she whirled about toward Sybert, her glance divided between indignation and contempt. ‘And you called me the “Wheat Princess” before every one in Paul Dessart’s studio. You knew that it wasn’t my fault; you knew that I didn’t even know about the trouble, and you laughed when I told the story of the Vivalanti ghost.’ Her voice broke slightly, and, turning her back, she drew a piece of paper toward her on the table and began to write. ‘There,’ she said, holding out a scrawled sheet toward her uncle. ‘There is a cablegram. Please see that it is sent immediately.’ Copley ran his eyes over it in silence, and his mouth twitched involuntarily into a smile.