She strained her eyes at me fixedly; I saw the tears standing still in them, and I knew the moment had come.
"This Caravacioli is my half-brother," I said.
Antonio laughed again.

"Of what kind!" Oh, he went on so easily to his betrayal, not knowing the United-Statesians and their sentiment, as I did.
"We had the same mother," I continued, as quietly as I could.

"Twenty years after this young--this somewhat young--Prince was born she divorced his father, Caravacioli, and married a poor poet, whose bust you can see on the Pincian in Rome, though he died in the cheapest hotel in Sienna when my true brother and I were children.

This young Prince would have nothing to do with my mother after her second marriage and--" "Marriage!" Antonio laughed pleasantly again.

He was admirable.