n increasing with every mile of that homeward
journey. On his ride to Rome he had been sensible of but one
obstacle,--the difficulty of persuading the real Vittoria to return with
him. But once that had been removed, others sprang to view, and each
hour enlarged them. There was but this one night, this one interview!
Upon the upshot of it depended whether a woman, destined by nature for a
queen, should set her foot upon the throne-steps, whether a cause should
suffer its worst of many eclipses, whether Europe should laugh or
applaud. These five minutes while he waited outside the door threw him
into a fever. "You will be friendly," he implored Mlle. de Caprara. "Oh,
you cannot but be! She must marry the King. I plead for him, not the
least bit in the world for her. For his sake she must complete the work
she has begun. She is not obstinate; she has her pride as a woman
should. You will tell her just the truth,--of the King's loyalty and
yours. Hearts cannot be commanded. Alas, mademoiselle, it is a hard
world at the end of it. It is mortised with the blood of broken hearts.
But duty, mademoiselle, duty, a consciousness of rectitude,--these are
very noble qualities. It will be a high consolation, mademoiselle, one
of these days, when the King sits upon his throne in England, to think
that your self-sacrifice had set him there." And Mr. Wogan hopped like a
bear on hot bricks, twittering irreproachable sentiments until the
garden door was opened.

Beyond the door stretched a level space of grass intersected by a gravel
path. Along this path the servant led Wogan and his companion into the
house. There were lights in the windows on the upper floor, and a small
lamp illuminated the hall. But the lower rooms were dark. The servant
mounted the stairs, and opening the door of a little library, announced
the Chevalier Wogan. Wogan led his companion in by the hand.

"Your Highness," said he, "I have the honour to present to you the
Princess Maria Vittoria Caprara." He left the two women standing
opposite to and measuring each other silently; he closed the door and
went down stairs into the hall. A door in the hall opened on to a small
parlour, with windows giving on to the garden. There once before Lady
Featherstone and Harry Whittington had spoken of Wogan's love for the
Princess Clementina and speculated upon its consequences. Now Wogan sat
there alone in the dark, listening to the women's voices overhead. He
had come to the e