Donna Tullia could hardly wait until the day when Del Ferice was coming to dinner:  she was several times on the point of writing a note to ask him to come at once.  But she wisely refrained, guessing that the more she pressed him the more difficulties he would make.  At last he came, looking pale and worn—­interesting, as Donna Tullia would have expressed it.  The old Countess talked a great deal during dinner; but as she was too deaf to hear more than a quarter of what was said by the others, the conversation was not interesting.  When the meal was over, she established herself in a comfortable chair in the little sitting-room, and took a book.  After a few minutes, Donna Tullia suggested to Del Ferice that they should go into the drawing-room.  She had received some new waltz-music from Vienna which she wanted to look over, and Ugo might help her.  She was not a musician, but was fond of a cheerful noise, and played upon the piano with the average skill of a well-educated young woman of the world.  Of course the doors were left open between the drawing-room and the boudoir, where the Countess dozed over her book and presently fell asleep.

Donna Tullia sat at the grand piano, and made Del Ferice sit beside her.  She struck a few chords, and played a fragment of dance-music.

“Of course you have heard that Don Giovanni is gone?” she asked, carelessly.  “I suppose he is gone to Saracinesca; they say there is a very good road between that and Astrardente.”

“I should think he would have more decency than to pursue the Duchessa in the first month of her mourning,” answered Del Ferice, resting one arm upon the piano, and supporting his pale face with his hand as he watched Donna Tullia’s fingers move upon the keys.

“Why?  He does not care what people say—­why should he?  He will marry her when the year is out.  Why should he care?”

“He can never marry her unless I choose to allow it,” said Del Ferice, quietly.

“So you told me the other night,” returned Donna Tullia.  “But you will allow him, of course.  Besides, you could not stop it, after all.  I do not believe that you could.”  She leaned far back in her chair, her hands resting upon the keys without striking them, and she looked at Del Ferice with a sweet smile.  There was a moment’s pause.

“I have decided to tell you something,” he said at last, “upon one condition.”

“Why make conditions?” asked Donna Tullia, trying to conceal her excitement.

“Only one, that of secrecy.  Will you promise never to mention what I am going to tell you without previously consulting me?  I do not mean a common promise; I mean it to be an oath.”  He spoke very earnestly.  “This is a very serious matter.  We are playing with fire and with life and death.  You must give me some guarantee that you will be secret.”

His manner impressed Donna Tullia; she had never seen him so much in earnest in her life.