After exchanging a few words with her niece the countess began to walk up and down nervously and seeming to hesitate as to what she should say.  She was horribly anxious, and very much afraid of betraying her anxiety.  She knew how dangerous it might be to press Veronica for an answer before it was ready.  And Veronica stood before a tall dressing-mirror, making disjointed remarks about the weather, between her instructions to her maid, while apparently altogether dissatisfied with her appearance.  First she wished a little pin at her throat, and then she gave it back to the woman and told her to look for another which she well knew would be hard to find.  Then she quarrelled with a belt she wore,—­for just then belts were in fashion, as they are periodically without the slightest reason,—­and she thought that perhaps she would not wear one at all, and she asked Matilde’s opinion.

The countess forced herself to consider the matter with an appearance of interest.  But she was not without resources, and she suddenly bethought her of a belt of her own which Veronica might try, and sent the maid for it, apparently oblivious of the fact that, being fitted to her own imposing figure, it would be far too long for her niece.  As soon as the woman had shut the door Matilde seized her opportunity.

“Have you come to any conclusion, Veronica dear?” she asked, making her voice full of a gentle preoccupation.

“I have not seen Bosio,” answered the young girl.  “How can I decide, until I have seen him?”

“I thought that you did not wish to see him last night—­”

“No—­not last night.  I wished to be alone—­but—­one of these days, I should like to talk to him.”

“One of these days!  To-day, dear.  Why not?  He is naturally anxious for your answer—­”

“Is he?  It seems so strange!  We have seen each other every day, for so long—­and I never supposed—­”

She broke off, not, apparently, from any shyness about going into the subject, but because she was very much interested in the fastening of the second pin she had tried.

“I suppose it is much better not to wear any jewelry at all,” she said, with exasperating indifference.

“Until you are married!” answered Matilde, who was not to be kept from the matter in hand.  “You see, everything turns upon that,” she continued, with a low laugh.  “The sooner it is decided, the sooner you may wear your jewels.  No,” she went on rapidly.  “Of course you never suspected that Bosio loved you, and he would have been very wrong to let you know it, until your uncle and I had given our permission.  But he was diffident even about mentioning the matter to us.  You cannot have known him so long without having discovered that he has great delicacy of feeling.  He did not like to suggest the marriage.  You will see when you talk with him after this.  I have very much doubt whether he will have the boldness to speak very directly—­”