his head and says he will not die till his four grandsons are strong
enough to bear him to his grave upon their shoulders.

Corona is still beautiful, still dark, still magnificent, though she has
reached the age beyond which no woman ever goes until after death. There
are few lines in the noble face and such as are there are not the scars
of heart wounds. Her life, too, has been peaceful and undisturbed by
great events these many years. There is, indeed, one perpetual anxiety
in her existence, for the old prince is an aged man and she loves him
dearly. The tough strength must give way some day and there will be a
great mourning in the house of Saracinesca, nor will any mourn the dead
more sincerely than Corona. And there is a shade of bitterness in the
knowledge that her marvellous beauty is waning. Can she be blamed for
that? She has been beautiful so long. What woman who has been first for
a quarter of a century can give up her place without a sigh? But much
has been given to her to soften the years of transition, and she knows
that also, when she looks from her husband to her four boys.

Then, too, it seems more easy to grow old when she catches a glimpse
from time to time of Donna Tullia Del Ferice, who wears her years
ungracefully, and who was once so near to becoming Giovanni
Saracinesca's wife. Donna Tullia is fat and fiery of complexion,
uneasily vivacious and unsure of herself. Her disagreeable blue eyes
have not softened, nor has the metallic tone of her voice lost its
sharpness. Yet she should not be a disappointed woman, for Del Ferice is
a power in the land, a member of parliament, a financier and a
successful schemer, whose doors are besieged by parasites and his
dinner-table by those who wear fine raiment and dwell in kings' palaces.
Del Ferice is the central figure in the great building syndicates which
in 1887 are at the height of their power. He juggles with millions of