had been educated;
she did it to save her father from ruin, almost from starvation; she
was seventeen, years of age; she was told that the world was bad, and
she resolved to begin her life by a heroic sacrifice; she took the
step heroically, and no human being had ever heard her complain. Five
years had elapsed since then, and her father--for whom she had given all
she had, herself, her beauty, her brave heart, and her hopes of
happiness--her old father, whom she so loved, was dead, the last of his
race, saving only this beautiful but childless daughter. What she
suffered now--whether she suffered at all--no man knew. There had been a
wild burst of enthusiasm when she appeared first in society, a universal
cry that it was a sin and a shame. But the cynics who had said she would
console herself had been obliged to own their worldly wisdom at fault;
the men of all sorts who had lost their hearts to her were ignominiously
driven in course of time to find them again elsewhere. Amid all the
excitement of the first two years of her life in the world, Corona had
moved calmly upon her way, wrapped in the perfect dignity of her
character; and the old Duca d'Astrardente had smiled and played with the
curled locks of his wonderful wig, and had told every one that his wife
was the one woman in the universe who was above suspicion. People had
laughed incredulously at first; but as time wore on they held their
peace, tacitly acknowledging that the aged fop was right as usual, but
swearing in their hearts that it was the shame of shames to see the
noblest woman in their midst tied to such a wretched remnant of
dissipated humanity as the Duca d'Astrardente. Corona went everywhere,
like other people; she received in her own house a vast number of
acquaintances; there were a few friends who came and went much as they
pleased, and some of them were young; but there was never a breath of
scandal breathed about the Duchessa. She was indeed above suspicion.

She sat now between two men who were evidently anxious to please her. The
position was not new; she was, as usual, to talk to both, and yet to show
no preference for either. And yet she had a preference, and in her heart
she knew it was a strong one. It was by no means indifferent to her which
of those two men left her side and which remained. She was above
suspicion--yes, above the suspicion of any human being besides herself,
as she had been for five long years. She knew that had her h