I stood before her in almost somber silence.  At last I said:  “If you say so, contessa, then it must be so.  I have had no experience in affairs of the heart, as they are called, and I find it difficult to give a name to the feelings which possess me; I am only conscious of a very strong wish to become the absolute master of your destiny.”  And involuntarily I clinched my hand as I spoke.  She did not observe the action, but she answered the words with a graceful bend of the head and a smile.

“I could not have a better fortune,” she said, “for I am sure my destiny will be all brightness and beauty with you to control and guide it!”

“It will be what you desire,” I half muttered; then with an abrupt change of manner I said:  “I will wish you goodnight, contessa.  It grows late, and my state of health compels me to retire to rest early.”

She rose from her seat and gave me a compassionate look.

“You are really a great sufferer then?” she inquired tenderly.  “I am sorry!  But perhaps careful nursing will quite restore you.  I shall be so proud if I can help you to secure better health.”

“Rest and happiness will no doubt do much for me,” I answered, “still I warn you, cara mia, that in accepting me as your husband you take a broken-down man, one whose whims are legion and whose chronic state of invalidism may in time prove to be a burden on your young life.  Are you sure your decision is a wise one?”

“Quite sure!” she replied firmly.  “Do I not love you!  And you will not always be ailing—­you look so strong.”

“I am strong to a certain extent,” I said, unconsciously straightening myself as I stood.  “I have plenty of muscle as far as that goes, but my nervous system is completely disorganized.  I—­why, what is the matter?  Are you ill?”

For she had turned deathly pale, and her eyes look startled and terrified.  Thinking she would faint, I extended my arms to save her from falling, but she put them aside with an alarmed yet appealing gesture.

“It is nothing,” she murmured feebly, “a sudden giddiness—­I thought—­no matter what!  Tell me, are you not related to the Romani family?  When you drew yourself up just now you were so like—­like Fabio!  I fancied,” and she shuddered, “that I saw his ghost!”

I supported her to a chair near the window, which I threw open for air, though the evening was cold.

“You are fatigued and overexcited,” I said calmly, “your nature is too imaginative.  No; I am not related to the Romanis, though possibly I may have some of their mannerisms.  Many men are alike in these things.  But you must not give way to such fancies.  Rest perfectly quiet, you will soon recover.”