You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. ‘You didn’t understand it any better than I. There is Mr. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. . Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. He would be so disappointed. CHAPTER VII.
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