aughing, and looked at him curiously, his heavy brows
bending with the intenseness of his gaze. Giovanni returned the look, and
it seemed as though those two strong angry men were fencing across the
table with their fiery glances. The son was the first to speak.

"Do you mean to imply that I am not the kind of man to be allowed to
marry a young girl?" he asked, not taking his eyes from his father.

"Look you, boy," returned the Prince, "I will have no more nonsense. I
insist upon this match, as I have told you before. It is the most
suitable one that I can find for you; and instead of being grateful, you
turn upon me and refuse to do your duty. Donna Tullia is twenty-three
years of age. She is brilliant, rich. There is nothing against her. She
is a distant cousin--"

"One of the flock of vultures you so tenderly referred to," remarked
Giovanni.

"Silence!" cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy hand upon the table
so that the glasses shook together. "I will be heard; and what is more, I
will be obeyed. Donna Tullia is a relation. The union of two such
fortunes will be of immense advantage to your children. There is
everything in favour of the match--nothing against it. You shall marry
her a month from to-day. I will give you the title of Sant' Ilario, with
the estate outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso to
live in, if you do not care to live here."

"And if I refuse?" asked Giovanni, choking down his anger.

"If you refuse, you shall leave my house a month from to-day," said the
Prince, savagely.

"Whereby I shall be fulfilling your previous commands, in setting up an
establishment for myself and living like a gentleman," returned Giovanni,
with a bitter laugh. "It is nothing to me--if you turn me out. I am rich,
as you justly observed."

"You will have the more leisure to lead the life you like best," retorted
the Prince; "to hang about in society, to go where you please, to make
love to--" the old man stopped a moment. His son was watching him
fiercely, his hand clenched upon the table, his face as white as death.

"To whom?" he asked with a terrible effort to be calm.

"Do you think I am afraid of you? Do you think your father is less strong
or less fierce than you? To whom?" cried the angry old man, his whole
pent-up fury bursting out as he rose suddenly to his feet. "To whom but
to Corona d'Astrardente--to whom else should you make love?--wasting your
youth and life upon a mad passio