attacks as the Diva meditated making on him,—­despite the fact that she had said to herself also all that she had said to her old friend, there had been something about the Marchese’s manner—­something in that last pressure of palm to palm that had set Bianca speculating as to the meaning of it.  It was not a mere manifestation of admiration; the Diva was used enough to that in all its forms, and could read every tone of its language.  It was more like wonder and curiosity,—­ at all events, it was not indifference.  She had seen with half an eye, and without the slightest appearance of seeing it, that the Marchese could not keep his eyes away from her.  During the drive to the city, and afterwards at the Palazzo Castelmare, while she was making the acquaintance of the principal people of the city, it had been the same thing.  And nothing could be further than was the Marchese’s manner, from the bold, unabashed staring, which such beautiful Divas as Bianca have often to endure.  He evidently was devouring her with his eyes on the sly.  Evidently he did not wish to be observed looking at her as he did look.  Whenever her own eyes caught him in the fact, his were on the instant withdrawn:  to return, as Bianca well marked, on the next instant.

Then, after those first words, which he had addressed to her at their meeting in the road, she had noted that he did not speak to her, as she sat by his side in the carriage, with the simple ease and freedom of indifference.  There was almost something approaching to a manifestation of emotion in his manner of addressing her.  It could not be that this elderly gentleman,—­this very mature Marchese, had fallen in love with her already.  Such an idea would have been too absurd!  Yet his whole bearing was odd and ill at ease.

It had seemed to himself as if some subtle material influence affected him, as he sat by her side,—­as if a magnetic emanation came forth from her that mounted to his brain, and disordered his pulses, and the flow of his blood.  He had sat by the side of women as beautiful before now, and never been conscious of being affected in any similar manner.  What it was that produced such an effect upon his nervous system,—­what was the matter with him, he could not for the life of him imagine.  It was unpleasant; he did not like it at all.  And yet some irresistible stimulus and curiosity drove him to prolong rather than to avoid the sorcery.

Bianca was by no means fully aware of the power and of the strength of the sorcery which she was exercising on the Marchese.  But she understood a great deal more about it than he did.  And when, in making the appointment for him and the impresario to call on her at one o’clock, he had asked her if that was too early for her habits, and she had replied, that she was always afoot much earlier than that, Bianca had felt persuaded that he would be at the door at an earlier hour.

And her experience, or her instinct, with reference to such matters had not deceived her.