“Is this day then so full of gravity that one may not steal a moment to dance at one’s own fete, Signer Consigliere?” she retorted, mockingly.

But the Lady Laura herself was coming toward them, with slow, stately steps, hiding her impatience—­for the morning had seemed long.

At sight of her Marcantonio bent his knee with the knightly homage still in vogue, and gave his hand to conduct her to her boudoir.

“Signer Consigliere,”—­she began, with a stately congratulation, when they were quite alone in her own boudoir; she had been planning, during the long morning, a speech that should be of a dignity to suit so great an occasion, but the words died away upon her lips; for once she forgot Venice and the Ca’ Giustiniani, and the mother was uppermost.  She folded her arms about him closely, and rested her head upon his shoulder in delicious abandon.

“Marco, my boy!” she murmured.

His heart overflowed to her in unaccustomed endearments, so rarely did she express any emotion, and to-day the rebound from the morning’s repression filled him with hope and gladness.  All fear of winning her aid was lifted. “Madre mia!” he cried, his face radiant with happiness.

“This day is not as other days,” she said, half in apology for her weakness, as she recovered herself.

“I have a gift for thee, madre mia; let me bring it.”

“I need no gift, Marco; for now hast thou everything before thee—­every honor that Venice may offer to a Venetian of the Venetians!  Forget it not, my Marco.”

But he had already flown from her, with impatient, lover’s footsteps.  Now that the moment had come he could not wait.

“Mother!” he cried, with shining eyes, as he placed the costly case upon a table and drew her gently toward it.

She stood in mute astonishment before the faultless gift, this perfect bit of Beroviero crystal,—­opalesque and lucent, reflecting hidden rainbow tints, enhanced by the golden traceries delicate and artistic—­the beautiful young face framed in those sea-gems dear to the Venetian heart, each pearl a study of changing light.

“There is none like it in Venice!” she exclaimed; “nor hath there ever been.  Thou hast treated me like a queen, my Marco!”

“I wished it so,” he answered impatiently, for he could not wait.  “And the face——­”

“Never hath there been a more exquisite!  It is the Titian’s work?”

“Nay, of the Veronese; for the goblet is of mine own designing.  And the master, for my sake, hath spent himself upon the face.”

“He will be here to-night, and we will thank him,” she answered graciously.  “And for thee—­thou hast excelled thyself.”

But Marcantonio answered nothing to her praise; his eyes were fixed upon the miniature of the Veronese.

“If Paolo Cagliari findeth none so beautiful among the noble damigelle who will grace thy fete to-night as this face which he hath painted, we will forgive him,” she said playfully.  “But thee, Marco, we will not forgive.  The time hath come when thou shouldst choose; thy father and I have spoken of this.”