ek each reported progress to his
employer, and on the whole the two fathers felt that matters were
going on well, without any undue delay.

But the Fates frowned grimly on the marriage and on all things
connected with it, for on the very morning during which Filmore Durand
finished Angela's portrait, and before she had left his studio in the
Palazzo Borghese, something happened which not only put a stop to the
leisurely labours of the two lawyers, but which profoundly changed
Angela's existence, and was the cause of her having a story quite
different from that of a good many young girls who are in love with
one man but are urged by their parents to marry another. The interest
of this tale, if it has any, lies in no such simple conflict of forces
as that, and it is enough to know that while her father had been busy
over her marriage, Angela Chiaromonte had fallen in love with Giovanni
Severi, and had, indeed, as much as promised to marry him; and that a
good many people, including the Marchesa del Prato, already suspected
this, though they had not communicated their suspicions to the girl's
father, partly because he was not liked, and partly because he hardly
ever showed himself in the world. The situation is thus clearly
explained, so far as it was known to the persons concerned at the
moment when the Great Unforeseen flashed from its hiding-place and
hurled itself into their midst.

As Filmore Durand went with the Marchesa towards the entrance hall,
followed by the young people, he called his man to open the outer
door, but almost at the same moment he heard his voice at the
telephone; the servant was a Swiss who spoke German, English, and
Italian, and had followed the artist for many years. He was evidently
answering an inquiry about the Marchesa just as he heard her step.

'The lady is here,' he said. 'She is coming to the telephone herself.'

He looked round as the four approached, for the instrument was placed
on the right side of the large door that opened upon the landing.

'Some one for your ladyship,' he said in English, holding out the
receiver to the Marchesa.

She took it and put it to her ear, repeating the usual Italian
formula.

'Ready--with whom am I speaking? Yes. I am the Marchesa del Prato, she
herself. What is it?'

There was a pause while she listened, and then Angela saw her face
change suddenly.

'Dead?' she shrieked into the telephone. 'Half-an-hour ago?'

She still held the receiver