A murmur ran round the
room. A sudden flood of light burst through the windows, lit up the
gleaming gold backgrounds of the triptychs, and played over the
sorrowfully patient brow of the Siennese Madonna and the glittering
steel scales on the Princess di Ferentino's little grey hat.
'When is the goblet coming on?' asked the princess impatiently.
Her friends consulted the catalogue. There was no hope of the goblet for
that day. The unusual amount of competition made the sale go slowly.
There was still a long list of smaller articles--cameos, medallions,
coins. Several antiquaries and Prince Stroganow disputed each piece
hotly. The rest felt considerably disappointed. The Duchess of Scerni
rose to go.
'Good-bye, Sperelli,' she said. 'I shall see you again this
evening--perhaps.'
'Why perhaps?'
'I do not feel well.'
'What is the matter?'
She turned away without replying, and took leave of the others. Many of
them followed her example and left with her. The young men were making
fun of the 'spectacle manque.' The Marchesa d'Ateleta laughed, but the
princess was evidently thoroughly out of temper. The footmen waiting in
the hall called for the carriages as if at the door of a theatre or
concert hall.
'Are you not coming on to Laura Miano's?' Francesca asked the duchess.
'No, I am going home.'
She waited on the pavement for her brougham to come up.
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