On this day it was all summer, for there was not a cloud in the air nor a whitecap on the sea as the water gently lapped against the steps at the foot of Bianca Corleone’s garden.  It was so warm that she was sitting there herself, a book unread on her knees, her marvellous face towards the day, her small feet resting on the lower rail of another chair before her, just because the gravel might possibly be damp.

Beside her, and turned towards her, looking earnestly to her averted eyes, sat Pietro Ghisleri, the man who many years afterwards married Lady Herbert Arden, of whom many have heard,—­a man young at that time and not world-worn as he was later, nor prematurely gaunt and weather-beaten.  He was only five-and-twenty years of age, then, and the beautiful Bianca was but twenty-one, and had already been married two years to Corleone.  But the suffering of a lifetime had been crushed into those two years; for Corleone was bad, from his head to his heart, all through, and she had believed that she loved him.

Then, half broken-hearted, she had listened to Ghisleri; and he loved her truly, with all his heart.  Even society found little to say at that, and perhaps there was little enough to be said.  To all intents and purposes, Corleone had abandoned her, and Ghisleri was often with her.  It was not until later that her brother, Gianforte Campodonico, lifted up his hand against Ghisleri for the first time.

So Ghisleri was sitting beside Bianca on that morning, in her garden, when there was a sound of wheels, behind the house; and then, unannounced, as one familiar with the place, Veronica Serra came swiftly down the walk towards the pair.  Ghisleri rose to his feet,—­a tall, fair man, sunburnt, lean and strong, with bright blue eyes,—­and Bianca turned in her chair, with a smile, and held out her hand, as she sat, to the young girl.

“You do not mind?” asked Veronica, smiling innocently.  “Am I not interrupting you?”

“No, dear—­no.”  A very faint dawn of colour rose in Bianca’s almost unnatural pallor.

“Something so strange has happened,” said Veronica.

Then she nodded to Pietro Ghisleri, realizing that she had forgotten him.  He moved forward for her the chair on which he had been sitting, while he continued to stand.  Veronica had often met him there before.

“Donna Veronica has something to say to you,” he said to Bianca.  “If you will allow me, I will go up to the stable and look at that dog.”

Bianca nodded, as though it were a matter of course that Pietro should look after her dogs when there was anything the matter with them, and Veronica sat down.  Her expression was strange, Bianca thought, as though she did not know whether to laugh or cry.  Yet she looked fresh and well and not tired.  The girl told her story in half a dozen words, as soon as Ghisleri was out of hearing.

“They want me to marry Bosio,” she said, and then drew breath, holding both of Bianca’s hands and looking into her eyes.