He rose, and at the same moment a bell was heard below.

“You are not going, Signore Calabressa?  That must be my father.”

“Your father!” he exclaimed; and he seemed confused.  Then he added, quickly, “Ah, very well.  I will see him as I go down.  Our business, little one, is finished; is it not?  Now repeat to me the name I mentioned to you.”

“Bartolotti?”

“Excellent, excellent!  And you will keep the portrait from every one’s eyes but your own.  Now, farewell!”

He took her two hands in his.

“My beautiful child,” said he, in rather a trembling voice, “may Heaven keep you as true and brave as your mother was, and send you more happiness.  I may not see England again—­no, it is not likely; but in after-years you may sometimes think of old Calabressa, and remember that he loved you almost as he once loved another of your name.”

Surely she must have understood.  He hurriedly kissed her on the forehead, and said, “Adieu, little daughter!” and left.  And when he had gone she sunk into the chair again, and clasped both her hands round her mother’s portrait and burst into tears.

Calabressa made his way down-stairs, and, at the foot, ran against Ferdinand Lind.

“Ah, amico mio,” said he, in his gay manner.  “See now, we have been bidding our adieux to the little Natalushka—­the rogue, to pretend to me she had no sweetheart!  Shall we have a glass of wine, mon capitaine, before we imbark?”

“Yes, yes,” said Lind, though without any great cordiality.  “Come into my little room.”

He led him into the small study, and presently there was wine upon the table.  Calabressa was exceedingly vivacious, and a little difficult to follow, especially in his French.  But Lind allowed him to rattle on, until by accident he referred to some meeting that was shortly to take place at Posilipo.

“Well, now, Calabressa,” said Lind, with apparent carelessness, as he broke off a bit of biscuit and poured out a glass of wine for himself, “I suppose you know more about the opinions of the Council now than any one not absolutely within itself.”

“I am a humble servant only, friend Lind,” he remarked, as he thrust his fingers into the breast of his military-looking coat—­“a humble servant of my most noble masters.  But sometimes one hears—­one guesses—­mais a quel propos cette question, monsieur mon camarade?”

Lind regarded him; and said, slowly,

“You know, Calabressa, that some seventeen years ago I was on the point of being elected a member of the Council.”

“I know it,” said the other, with a little embarrassment.

“You know why—­though you do not know the right or the wrong of it—­all that became impossible.”

Calabressa nodded.  It was delicate ground, and he was afraid to speak.

“Well,” said Lind, “I ask you boldly—­do you not think I have done enough in these sixteen or seventeen years to reinstate myself?  Who else has done a tithe of the work I have done?”