They went home early, as has been already recorded, seeing it was only a great and formal reception to which the world went that night; and even the toughest old society jades were weary from the ball of the day before, which had not broken up until half-past six in the morning.
On the next day, at about twelve o'clock, Corona was sitting in her boudoir writing a number of invitations which were to be distributed in the afternoon, when the door opened and her husband entered the room.
"My dear," he cried in great excitement, "it is perfectly horrible! Have you heard ?" "What ?" asked Corona, laying down her pen.
"Spicca has killed Casalverde--the man who seconded Del Ferice yesterday,--killed him on the spot--" Corona uttered an exclamation of horror.
"And they say Del Ferice is dead, or just dying"-- his cracked voice rose at every word; "and they say," he almost screamed, laying his withered hand roughly upon his wife's shoulder,--"they say that the duel was about you--you, do you understand ?" "That is not true," said Corona, firmly.

"Calm yourself--I beseech you to be calm.

Tell me connectedly what has happened--who told you this story." "What right has any man to drag your name into a quarrel ?" cried the old man, hoarsely.

"Everybody is saying it--it is outrageous, abominable--" Corona quietly pushed her husband into a chair, and sat down beside him.
"You are excited--you will harm yourself,--remember your health," she said, endeavouring to soothe him.

"Tell me, in the first place, who told you that it was about me." "Valdarno told me; he told me that every one was saying it--that it was the talk of the town." "But why ?" insisted Corona.