He had faithfully kept the promise he had made in his heart, that since he was so unfortunate as to love the wife of another--a woman of such nobility that even in Rome no breath had been breathed against her--he would keep his unfortunate passion to himself.

Astrardente was old, almost decrepit, in spite of his magnificent wig; Corona was but two-and-twenty years of age.

If ever her husband died, Giovanni would present himself before the world as her suitor; meanwhile he would do nothing to injure her self-respect nor to disturb her peace--he hardly flattered himself he could do that, for he loved her truly--and above all, he would do nothing to compromise the unsullied reputation she enjoyed.

She might never love him; but he was strong and patient, and would do her the only honour it was in his power to do her, by waiting patiently.
But Giovanni had not considered that he was the most conspicuous man in society; that there were many who watched his movements, in hopes he would come their way; that when he entered a room, many had noticed that, though he never went directly to Corona's side, he always looked first towards her, and never omitted to speak with her in the course of an evening.

Keen observers, the jays of society who hover about the eagle's nest, had not failed to observe a look of annoyance on Giovanni's face when he did not succeed in being alone by Corona's side for at least a few minutes; and Del Ferice, who was a sort of news-carrier in Rome, had now and then hinted that Giovanni was in love.