“The time was short, since you were to come this morning.”

“That is true,” he answered.  He moved uneasily.  “And now, signora, will you be kind enough to tell me what you intend to do with me!”

“Certainly, since you are more reasonable.  You see I treat you altogether as an artist, and not at all as an Italian master.  A great artist may idle away a morning in a woman’s boudoir; a simple teacher of languages must be more industrious.”

“But I am not a great artist,” said Nino, whose vanity—­we all have it—­began to flutter a little.

“You will be one before long, and one of the greatest.  You are a boy yet, my little tenor,” said she, looking at him with her dark eyes, “and I might almost be your mother.  How old are you, Signor Nino?”

“I was twenty on my last birthday,” he answered, blushing.

“You see!  I am thirty—­at least,” she added, with a short laugh.

“Well, signora, what of that?” said Nino, half amused.  “I wish I were thirty myself.”

“I am glad you are not,” said she.  “Now listen.  You are completely in my power, do you understand?  Yes.  And you are apparently very much in love with my young friend, the Contessina di Lira”—­Nino sprang to his feet, his face white again, but with rage this time.

“Signora,” he cried, “this is too much!  It is insufferable!  Good-morning,” and he made as though he would go.

“Very well,” said the baroness; “then I will go to the Graf and explain who you are.  Ah—­you are calm again in a moment?  Sit down.  Now I have discovered you, and I have a right to you, do you see?  It is fortunate for you that I like you.”

“You!  You like me?  In truth, you act as though you did!  Besides, you are a stranger, Signora Baronessa, and a great lady.  I never saw you till yesterday.”  But he resumed his seat.

“Good,” said she.  “Is not the Signorina Edvigia a great lady, and was there never a day when she was a stranger too?”

“I do not understand your caprices, signora.  In fine, what do you want of me?”

“It is not necessary that you should understand me,” answered the dark-eyed baroness.  “Do you think I would hurt you—­or rather your voice?”

“I do not know.”

“You know very well that I would not; and as for my caprices, as you call them, do you think it is a caprice to love music?  No, of course not.  And who loves music loves musicians; at least,” she added, with a most enchanting smile, “enough to wish to have them near one.  That is all.  I want you to come here often and sing to me.  Will you come and sing to me, my little tenor?”

Nino would not have been human had he not felt the flattery through the sting.  And I always say that singers are the vainest kind of people.

“It is very like singing in a cage,” he said, in protest.  Nevertheless, he knew he must submit; for, however narrow his experience might be, this woman’s smile and winning grace, even when she said the hardest things, told him that she would have her own way.  He had the sense to understand, too, that whatever her plans might be, their object was to bring him near to herself, a reflection which was extremely soothing to his vanity.