Percival Theory had turned away. " Oh, if you are going into her relationships!" he murmured, and joined his sister at the brilliant window, through which, from the distance, the many-voiced uproar of Naples came in.
"He married first my sister Dora, and she died five years ago. Then he married her," and Mrs. Percival nodded at the princess.
Benyon's eyes went back to the portrait; he could see what she meant—it stared out at him. "Her? Georgina?"
"Georgina Gressie. Gracious, do you know her?"
It was very distinct—that answer of Mrs. Percival's, and the question that followed it as well. But he had the resource of the picture; he could look at it, seem to take it very seriously, though it danced up and down before him. He felt that he was turning red, then he felt that he was turning pale. "The brazen impudence!" That was the way he could speak to himself now of the woman he had once loved, and whom he afterwards hated, till this had died out, too. Then the wonder of it was lost in the quickly growing sense that it would make a difference for him,—a great difference. Exactly what, he did n't see yet; only a difference that swelled and swelled as he thought of it, and caught up, in its expansion, the girl who stood behind him so quietly, looking into the Italian garden.
The custodian drew Mrs. Percival away to show her another princess, before Benyon answered her
