“Madame has gone out to make some purchases,” replied Giovanna.  “She said she should return soon, and charged me to keep everything quiet, that you might sleep.  The Signor is in his room waiting to speak to you.”

“Please tell him I have waked,” said Rosa; “and as soon as I have dressed and breakfasted, ask him to come to me.”

Giovanna, who had been at the opera the preceding evening, felt the importance of her mission in dressing the celebrated Senorita Rosita Campaneo, of whose beauty and gracefulness everybody was talking.  And when the process was completed, the cantatrice might well have been excused if she had thought herself the handsomest of women.  The glossy dark hair rippled over her forehead in soft waves, and the massive braids behind were intertwisted with a narrow band of crimson velvet, that glowed like rubies where the sunlight fell upon it.  Her morning wrapper of fine crimson merino, embroidered with gold-colored silk, was singularly becoming to her complexion, softened as the contact was by a white lace collar fastened at the throat with a golden pin.  But though she was seated before the mirror, and though her own Spanish taste had chosen the strong contrast of bright colors, she took no notice of the effect produced.  Her face was turned toward the window, and as she gazed on the morning sky, all unconscious of its translucent brilliancy of blue, there was an inward-looking expression in her luminous eyes that would have made the fortune of an artist, if he could have reproduced her as a Sibyl.  Giovanna looked at her with surprise, that a lady could be so handsome and so beautifully dressed, yet not seem to care for it.  She lingered a moment contemplating the superb head with an exultant look, as if it were a picture of her own painting, and then she went out noiselessly to bring the breakfast-tray.

The Senorita Campaneo ate with a keener appetite than she had ever experienced as Rosabella the recluse; for the forces of nature, exhausted by the exertions of the preceding evening, demanded renovation.  But the services of the cook were as little appreciated as those of the dressing-maid; the luxurious breakfast was to her simply food.  The mirror was at her side, and Giovanna watched curiously to see whether she would admire the effect of the crimson velvet gleaming among her dark hair.  But she never once glanced in that direction.  When she had eaten sufficiently, she sat twirling her spoon and looking into the depths of her cup, as if it were a magic mirror revealing all the future.

She was just about to say, “Now you may call Papa Balbino,” when Giovanna gave a sudden start, and exclaimed, “Signorita! a gentleman!”

And ere she had time to look round, Fitzgerald was kneeling at her feet.  He seized her hand and kissed it passionately, saying, in an agony of entreaty:  “O Rosabella, do say you forgive me!  I am suffering the tortures of the damned.”