“Certainly,” answered the countess, instantly, and with perfect self-control.

The servant closed the door and went back to deliver the short message.  Matilde threw the folds of her black gown away from her feet, so that she might rise to meet the visitor, who was an old man and a person of importance.  She looked keenly at Bosio.

“Do not go away,” she said quickly, in a low voice.  “Your forehead is wet—­dry it—­compose yourself—­be natural!”

Before Bosio had returned his handkerchief to his pocket the door opened again, and a tall old man entered with a stooping gait.  He had weak and inquiring eyes that looked about the room as he walked.  His head was bald, and shone like a skull in the yellow reflexion from the damask hangings.  His gait was not firm, and as he passed Bosio in order to reach the countess, he had an uncertain movement of head and hand, as though he were inclined to speak to him first.  Matilde had risen, however, and had moved a step forward to meet the visitor, speaking at the same time, as though to direct him to herself, with the somewhat maternal air which even young women sometimes assume in greeting old men.

The Duca della Spina smiled rather feebly as he took the outstretched hand, and slowly sat down upon the sofa beside Matilde.

“I feared it might be too late,” he began, and his watery blue eyes sought her face anxiously.  “But my son insisted that I should come this evening, when he found that I had not been able to see you this afternoon.”

“How is he?” asked the countess, suddenly assuming an expression of great concern.

“Eh!  How he is!  He is—­so,” answered the Duca, with a gesture which meant uncertainty.  “Signora Contessa,” he added, “he is not well at all.  It is natural with the young.  It is passion.  What else can I tell you?  He is impatient.  His nerves shake him, and he does not eat.  Morning and evening he asks, ‘Father, what will it be?’ So, to content him, I have come to disturb you.”

“Not in the least, dear Duca!”

The door opened again, and Gregorio Macomer entered the room, having been informed of the presence of a visitor.  The Duca looked up, and his head shook involuntarily, as he at once began the slow process of getting upon his legs.  But Macomer was already pressing him into his seat again, holding the old hand in both of his with an appearance of much cordiality.

“I hope that Gianluca is no worse?” he said, with an interrogation that expressed friendly interest.

“Better he is not,” answered the Duca, sadly.  “What would you?  It is passion.  That is why I have come at this hour, and I have made my excuses to the Signora Contessa for disturbing her.”

“Excuses?” cried Gregorio, promptly.  “We are delighted to see you, dear friend!”

But as he spoke he turned a look of inquiry upon his wife, and she answered by a scarcely perceptible sign of negation.