to her ear, but she was stretching out her
left hand as if she needed support. Durand took her by the arm and
elbow, prepared to hold her up if she showed signs of fainting. Angela
was already on her other side.

'Who is dead?' the girl asked quietly enough, but with evident
anxiety.

'Your father,' answered the Marchesa, with such sudden and brutal
directness that Giovanni started forward, and Durand stared in
surprise, for he knew enough Italian to understand as much as that.

Angela made two steps backwards, slowly and mechanically, like a blind
man who has unexpectedly run against a wall; like the blind, too, she
held out her hands before her, as if to assure herself that she was
getting out of reach of the obstacle. Her face had turned white and
her eyes were half closed.

The Marchesa no longer seemed to be in need of support and watched
her.

'My poor child!' she cried, in a tone of conventional sympathy. 'I
should have broken the news to you gradually----'

'You should indeed!' answered Giovanni with stern emphasis.

He was already leading Angela to one of the nearest of the high-backed
chairs that stood ranged against the dark-green wall of the hall. She
sat down, steadying herself by his arm.

'Run over by a motor car almost at his own door,' said the Marchesa,
in a lower tone and in English, as she turned slightly towards Durand.
'Killed on the spot! It is too awful! My poor brother-in-law!'

'Get some brandy and some cold water,' said the artist to his man,
watching the girl's pale face and twitching hands.

'Yes,' said Giovanni, who was bending over her anxiously. 'Bring
something quickly! She is going to faint.'

But Angela was not fainting, nor even half-unconscious. She had felt
as if something hard had struck her between the eyes, without quite
stunning her. She attempted to get up, but realised her weakness and
waited a moment before trying again. Then she rose to her feet with an
effort and stood straight and rigid before her aunt, her eyes quite
open now.

'Come!' she said, almost imperiously, and in a voice unlike her own.

In a moment they were gone, and the artist was standing before the
portrait he had finished, looking into its eyes as if it were alive.
He had been deeply shocked by what had just happened, and was
sincerely sorry for Angela, though he had not the least idea whether
she had loved her father or not, but his face was calm and thoughtful
again, now that she was gon