“Generous!  Just!” murmured Bianca behind the laced pocket-handkerchief in a broken voice, just loud enough to reach the neighbouring ear of the Marchese, while she suffered her slender fingers to press the hand which held hers just perceptibly before withdrawing it from him;—­“just,” she continued in a louder tone, taking her handkerchief from her face, and raising her shoulders a little from the sofa, so as to turn more fully towards him, while her eyes fired point blank into his a broadside of uncontrollable gratitude and admiration;—­“just, because generous and noble.  Oh, Signor Marchese, those who have never known what it is to suffer from a slanderous tongue can never know the delight—­the sweet consolation of meeting with such generous appreciation.”

The poor Diva was quite overcome by her own emotion; and, sinking back on the cushions of the sofa, again lifted her handkerchief to her face, while one or two half-stifled sobs showed how deeply she had been moved;—­and how perfect was the form and hue of the beautiful half-covered bosom which this emotion caused to heave beneath its gauzy veil.

Just at that minute there came, to the infinite disgust of the Marchese, a discreet tap at the door.

Bianca rapidly passed her fingers over the tresses above her forehead, resettled her pose on the sofa, and gave the Marchese a meaning look of common intelligence and mutual confidence, which set forth, as well as a volume could have done, and established the fact that there existed thenceforward a bond of union and a fellowship between her and him, such as shut them in together, and shut out in the cold all the rest of Ravenna, and then said “Passi,” and admitted, as she knew very well, no more startling an interrupter than Gigia.

The well-trained servant said nothing and looked at nothing; but silently handed to her mistress two cards.

“Of course you told these gentlemen that I was not visible, Gigia?”

“Diamine!  Signora; of course I should not have let any gentleman pass this morning more than any other morning of the year if you had not specially told me to admit the Marchese Lamberto at any hour he might come,” said Gigia with a niaise simplicity, as she left the room.

Bianca covered her face with her pretty hands and shook a gale of perfume from her sunny locks, as she exclaimed, sotto voce,—­

“Oh, the stupidity of these servants!  Signor Marchese,” she continued, looking up shyly, but with a gay laugh in her eyes, “what must you not imagine?—­not, at all events, I hope, that I contemplated the possibility of receiving you in this dishabille?  But I will do as other criminals do;—­confess when they are found out.  I did think,” she continued, casting down her eyes, and hesitating with the most charmingly becoming and naive confusion; “I had some little hope—­no; I don’t mean that;—­I did not mean to put that into my confession;—­it did occur to me as possible,” she went on, hanging