“My dear Don Francis,” he said briskly, “let me be one of the first to welcome you.  I had heard of your arrival only to-day—­indeed, I came here to prepare Donna Aurelia for a pleasant surprise.  I believe I was being eloquent on your account at this moment.  You may have overheard me—­if I was too partial, blame my esteem.”

I scarcely heard him, and was perhaps barely civil.  I went past him, hat in hand, towards the lady.  I saluted her profoundly.

“Madam,” I said, “my intrusion is pure accident.  I was told that your ladyship was in the house.  Ten thousand pardons that I come unannounced before you—­unwelcome I must needs be, unworthy of your clemency—­since we parted unhappily.  Forgive me, I beseech you.”  I then offered the count my hand.

“Oh, Signor Francesco,” says Aurelia in a twitter, “I am glad to see you again.”  She was tremulous, beautiful; she had her old wayward, ardent ways, her childish bloom and roundness had not left her, nor her sumptuousness, nor her allure—­and yet I could look calmly into her face and know that she had no charm left for me.

“Madam,” I said, “since you showed me so plainly that my company was not to your taste, I have no right to be here.  My fault—­my old fault—­is so clearly before me that I should not have dared commit another.  If I may once more ask your pardon——­”

“Oh, my pardon!” cried she, faltering.  “Why, what harm have you done me now, pray?”

“Madam,” says the count, “my young friend’s fault is a very natural one.  If he is a sinner, what must your ladyship be?  For if it is sinful to love, is it not worse to inspire it?” The lady made no reply at this gallant diversion.

The position was very awkward.  I could not speak as I felt, or as I ought to feel; the count would not, and Donna Aurelia was on the verge of tears.  Obviously I must retire.

“Madam,” I said, “I intruded upon you by misfortune, and may not trespass.  I beg my service to the learned judge, my profoundest respect to your ladyship.  The young man who once showed himself unworthy to be at your feet may now stand upon his own.  Don Francis has offended Donna Aurelia——­”

“Oh, no, no, no!” said Aurelia in distress.  “Oh, Checho, don’t leave me.”

I came off my stilts, for I saw that she was unhappy.

“Can I serve you?” I asked her.  “Can I be so honoured?”

“Yes, yes,” she said brokenly, “stay with me.  I need you—­stay.”  Count Giraldi took a step forward.

“Madam,” he said, “I salute your ladyship’s hand, and shall do myself the honour to wait upon you upon a less urgent occasion.  Don Francis, your humble servant—­to meet again, no doubt.”

He bowed himself away, and left me alone with Aurelia.

For some time neither of us spoke.  She sat pensive, with signs of distress—­storm signals—­still displayed; she was very nervous, looking at her fingers at play in her lap.  I stood up beside her, not knowing, in truth, what in the world she wanted with me.  The silence, as it became oppressive, made Aurelia angry.  She bit her lip.