en the ceremony was finished and not a
room unvisited, Filomena flew back to duty, and carefully, but not
anxiously, lifted the lid of each _marmite_ on the huge stove. She had
possessed her soul in perfect confidence that the patron saint of the
household would look after her dishes during her absence, and she would
have been not only surprised but indignant if anything had been burnt.

Now had come the moment for Vanno to speak.

The cure had sent away the acolytes. It still wanted half an hour of
luncheon time, and the Princess led the way to a wide window-door on to
the loggia. This was very broad, like an American veranda, with a roof
of thick, dull greenish glass which softened the glare of sunlight, and
did not darken the rooms inside. Roses garlanded the marble pillars, and
Indian rugs were spread on the marble floor. There were basket chairs
and tables, and a red hammock piled with cushions was suspended on bars
arranged after a plan of Angelo's. Marie Della Robbia in her white dress
made a picture among the crimson cushions, and it was scarcely possible
for her not to know that the three men who grouped round her found the
picture charming.

Vanno's heart was thumping. He had thought it would be easy and
delightful to tell the news of his engagement, but it struck him
suddenly that these two, Angelo and Marie, were utterly absorbed in each
other. Perhaps they would not care as much as he had hoped. Or Angelo
might disapprove. Not that any disapproval would matter now, not even
their father's; but Vanno wanted sympathy and interest. As he searched
for the right word to begin, groping for it, ashamed of his shyness,
the butler appeared at the window, a Mentonnais-Italian who prided
himself passionately upon his English. He too had been found for the
house by the friendly offices of the cure--an eager, intelligent man
with glittering eyes and a laughable tendency to blushing. He had
learned his English in three months at a Bloomsbury boarding-house
where, apparently, conversations had been carried on entirely in slang.
If he were addressed by an English-speaking person in any other
language, his feelings were so deeply wounded that he turned a rich
purple.

"Highnesses please," he announced, "a French mister has come to appear.
It is a Stereo-Mondaine and he have a strong want to prend some
photographs of the garden and peoples which is done from colours
already, very rippin'."

Angelo frowned slightly. And