her glance toward the stalls, she was aware of Giovanni Saracinesca’s black eyes looking anxiously up to her.  A faint smile crossed her serene face, and almost involuntarily she nodded to him and then looked away.  Many men were watching her, and bowed as she glanced at them, and she bent her head to each; but there was no smile for any save Giovanni, and when she looked again to where he had been standing with his back to the stage, he was gone from his place.

“They are the same old things,” said Astrardente, “but they are still very amusing.  Madame Mayer always seems to get the wrong man into her box.  She would give all those diamonds to have Giovanni Saracinesca instead of that newsmonger fellow.  If he comes here I will send him across.”

“Perhaps she likes Del Ferice,” suggested Corona.

“He is a good lapdog—­a very good dog,” answered her husband.  “He cannot bite at all, and his bark is so soft that you would take it for the mewing of a kitten.  He fetches and carries admirably.”

“Those are good points, but not interesting ones.  He is very tiresome with his eternal puns and insipid compliments, and his gossip.”

“But he is so very harmless,” answered Astrardente, with compassionate scorn.  “He is incapable of doing an injury.  Donna Tullia is wise in adopting him as her slave.  She would not be so safe with Saracinesca, for instance.  If you feel the need of an admirer, my dear, take Del Ferice.  I have no objection to him.”

“Why should I need admirers?” asked Corona, quietly.

“I was merely jesting, my love.  Is not your own husband the greatest of your admirers, and your devoted slave into the bargain?” Old Astrardente’s face twisted itself into the semblance of a smile, as he leaned towards his young wife, lowering his cracked voice to a thin whisper.  He was genuinely in love with her, and lost no opportunity of telling her so.  She smiled a little wearily.

“You are very good to me,” she said.  She had often wondered how it was that this aged creature, who had never been faithful to any attachment in his life for five months, did really seem to love her just as he had done for five years.  It was perhaps the greatest triumph she could have attained, though she never thought of it in that light; but though she could not respect her husband very much, she could not think unkindly of him—­for, as she said, he was very good to her.  She often reproached herself because he wearied her; she believed that she should have taken more pleasure in his admiration.

“I cannot help being good to you, my angel,” he said.  “How could I be otherwise?  Do I not love you most passionately?”

“Indeed, I think so,” Corona answered.  As she spoke there was a knock at the door.  Her heart leaped wildly, and she turned a little pale.

“The devil seize these visitors!” muttered old Astrardente, annoyed beyond measure at being interrupted when making love to his wife.  “I suppose we must let them in?”