in Rome, she spoke Italian with a foreign accent, though otherwise
correctly enough. But she was nevertheless a great lady, and no
one would have thought of doubting the fact. Fat, awkwardly
dressed, of no imposing stature, with unmanageable hair and
prominent teeth, she was not a person to be laughed at. She had
what many a beautiful woman lacks and envies--natural dignity of
character and manner, combined with a self-possession which is not
always found in exalted personages. That repose of manner which is
commonly believed to be the heirloom of noble birth is seen quite
as often in the low-born adventurer, who regards it as part of his
stock-in-trade; and there are many women, and men too, whose
position might be expected to place them beyond the reach of what
we call shyness, but who nevertheless suffer daily agonies of
social timidity and would rather face alone a charge of cavalry
than make a new acquaintance. The Princess Montevarchi was made of
braver stuff, however, and if her daughters had not inherited all
her unaffected dignity they had at least received their fair share
of self-possession. When Sant' Ilario entered, these two young
ladies, Donna Flavia and Donna Faustina, were seated one on each
side of their mother. The princess extended her hand, the two
daughters held theirs demurely crossed upon their knees. Faustina
looked at the carpet, as she had been taught to do in the convent.
Flavia looked up boldly at Giovanni, knowing by experience that
her mother could not see her while greeting the visitor. Sant'
Ilario muttered some sort of civil inquiry, bowed to the two young
ladies and sat down.

"How is Monsieur Gouache?" he asked, going straight to the point.
He had seen the look of surprise on the princess's face as he
entered, and thought it best to explain himself at once.