He came to the villa in the afternoon, after receiving her note of thanks, and she was glad to see him, and spoke with pleasure of his letter, before Bianca, who seemed surprised, but said nothing at the time.  He was wise enough not to stay too long, and he went away exceedingly elated by his first success.

“What is the matter with him?” asked Veronica, of her friend, just after he had left them.  “He seems so much better—­but he is growing very lame.  Did you notice how he walked to-day?  He seems to drag his feet after him.”

“He must have hurt his foot,” said Bianca, calmly.  “By the by, what is this, about letters?  Do you mean to say that he writes to you?”

“Yes—­and I write to him,” answered Veronica, with perfect calm.  “You see, as I have nobody to ask, I ask nobody.  It is more simple.”

“But, my dear child—­a young girl—­”

“Do not call me a child, and do not call me a young girl, Bianca,” said Veronica.  “I am neither, in the sense of being a thing to be kept under a glass case and fed on rose leaves.  I am a woman, and as I do not think that I shall ever marry, I refuse to be chaperoned all the way to old-maidhood.  I know that you feel responsible for me, in a sort of way, because you are married, and I am not.  It is really absurd, dear.  I am much better able to take care of myself than you are.”

“No doubt, in a way.  You are more energetic.  But as for writing to Gianluca—­I hardly know—­I wish you would not.”

“He writes very well,” answered Veronica.  “I will show you his letter.  Besides, so far as your responsibility goes, it will not last much longer.  I shall go to Muro next month.”

“Alone?”

“Alone—­yes.  I always mean to live alone.  Don Teodoro will come and dine with me every evening, and we will talk about the people, and what we are doing for them.  I shall have horses to ride.  If you will come, we will fence together.  I shall miss the fencing dreadfully.  Could you not come, Bianca dear?”

“I believe that you will miss the fencing more than me, dear,” answered Bianca, rather sadly.

Veronica was more to her than she could ever be to Veronica, and she knew it.

“Bianca!” exclaimed the young girl.  “How can you say such things!  Because I spoke of fencing first?  You know that I did not mean it in that way!  I want you for yourself—­but it will be nice to have the foils in the morning, all the same.  You see, I could not even have a fencing-master out there.  It is so far!  Do come.”

Bianca shook her head.

“We will have glorious days together,” continued Veronica.  “We will do all sorts of things together.  They do say that it rains a good deal in those mountains—­well, when it rains, you can write to Signor Ghisleri, while I write to Don Gianluca.”

Her innocent laughter at the idea startled Bianca, and the beautiful face grew paler, until it was almost wan.  Veronica thought she was like a passion flower, just then.  A short silence followed.