In the flush of victory the door-bell rang, and there was
the telegram: "Lilia engaged to Italian nobility. Writing.
Abbott."

"No answer," said Mrs. Herriton. "Get down Mr. Philip's
Gladstone from the attic."

She would not allow herself to be frightened by the
unknown. Indeed she knew a little now. The man was not an
Italian noble, otherwise the telegram would have said so.
It must have been written by Lilia. None but she would have
been guilty of the fatuous vulgarity of "Italian nobility."
She recalled phrases of this morning's letter: "We love this
place--Caroline is sweeter than ever, and busy
sketching--Italians full of simplicity and charm." And the
remark of Baedeker, "The inhabitants are still noted for
their agreeable manners," had a baleful meaning now. If
Mrs. Herriton had no imagination, she had intuition, a more
useful quality, and the picture she made to herself of
Lilia's FIANCE did not prove altogether wrong.

So Philip was received with the news that he must start
in half an hour for Monteriano. He was in a painful
position. For three years he had sung the praises of the
Italians, but he had never contemplated having one as a
relative. He tried to soften the thing down to his mother,
but in his heart of hearts he agreed with her when she said,
"The man may be a duke or he may be an organ-grinder. That
is not the point. If Lilia marries him she insults the
memory of Charles, she insults Irma, she insults us.