The count and countess had always been very careful in the selection of their intimate associates—­they could hardly be said to have any intimate friends.  Since Veronica had come to them from the convent in Rome, where she had been educated according to her dead father’s desire, they had been doubly cautious and trebly particular as to the persons they chose to receive.  Their responsibility, they said openly, was very great.  The child’s happiness, was wholly in their hands.  They would be held accountable if she should form an unfortunate attachment for some ineligible young man who might chance to dine at their table.  The responsibility, they repeated with emphasis, was truly enormous.  It was also an unfortunate fact that in their Neapolitan society there were many young men, princes and dukes by the score, who had nothing but their names and titles to recommend them, and who would have found it very hard to keep body and title together, so to say, if gambling had suddenly been abolished, or had gone out of fashion unexpectedly.

Then, too, the Macomer couple had always led a retired life and had kept aloof from the very gay portion of society.  They lived well, according to their station, and so far as any one could see; but it had always been said that Gregorio Macomer was miserly.  At the same time it suited his wife, for reasons of her own, not to be conspicuous in the world, and she encouraged him to lead a quiet existence, spending half the year in the country, and receiving very few people when in Naples during the winter and spring.  Gregorio had one brother, Bosio, considerably younger than himself and very different in character, who was not married and who lived at the Palazzo Macomer, on excellent terms both with Gregorio and the countess, as well as with Veronica herself.  The young girl was inclined to like him, though she felt dimly that she could never understand him as she believed that she understood her aunt and uncle.  He was, indeed, almost the only man, excepting her uncle, whom she could be said to know tolerably well.  He was not present on that afternoon when she signed the will, but his absence did not surprise her, for he had always abstained from any remarks about her property or his brother’s and sister-in-law’s guardianship, in such a marked way as to make her understand that he really wished to know nothing about the management or disposal of her fortune.

She liked him for several reasons,—­for his non-interference in discussions about her affairs, for a certain quiet consideration, just a shade more friendly than deference, which he showed for her slightest wishes, and chiefly, perhaps, for his conversation and perfectly even temper.