“Yes.”

They were interrupted by a servant, who came quickly down from the house.  The man asked if the princess would receive Baron Taquisara.  Bianca ordered him to be admitted, and told the man to ask Ghisleri to come back from the stables.

“Do you know Taquisara?” she asked Veronica.

“A Sicilian?  With a bronze face and fiery eyes?  I have seen him once or twice at balls, I think.  Yes—­he was introduced to me somewhere.  I remember him because they say he is descended from Tancred.”

“Yes,” said Bianca.  “I could not refuse to receive him, because Signor Ghisleri is here.  They will both go away before long, and then we can talk.  Can you stay to breakfast with me?”

“Oh, no!  I should not dare to do that!” Veronica laughed a little.  “No one knows where I am,” she added.  “My aunt thinks I have gone for a drive to think over the matter.  I just pulled down the curtain of the brougham and told the man to bring me here—­all alone.”

At this moment Taquisara and Ghisleri appeared on the gravel path, walking side by side, two men strongly contrasted with each other, Italians of the Lombard and the Saracen types, fine specimens both, in the prime of youth and strength.  Bianca gave the Sicilian her hand, and he bowed gravely to Veronica.  Ghisleri brought out more chairs, and without the slightest hesitation sat down beside Bianca, forcing Taquisara to place himself near the young girl.

Taquisara was a man almost incapable of anything like social timidity, in whatever position he might be placed, and he was in reality delighted at thus being thrust upon Donna Veronica, from whom he felt sure that he should learn something about the projected marriage.  For he had great and unaffected confidence in himself.  But he hesitated a moment before he spoke, for he did not now remember that he had ever before entered intentionally into a serious conversation with a young girl, in the whole course of his life.  The customs of the society in which he lived made such things well-nigh impossible.  As usual with him, he meditated going straight to the matter in hand, and he only paused to consider what words he should use.  Veronica, as she had been taught to do in such a position, looked vacantly before her at the roots of the trees, waiting for him to say something.

He had not seen her, except from a distance, since Gianluca had fallen so madly in love with her, and while she looked away from him, his bold eyes scrutinized her face.  He saw what she had seen, when she had looked into the glass on the previous evening—­neither more nor less, except that she was dressed for walking, and something feathery was around her slender throat—­and she wore a hat, which, in her own opinion, changed her appearance very much.  But, as he looked, he was aware that there was more in her face than he had supposed.

There was something in the expression which was, all at once, far more beautiful to him, than anything he had ever discovered in the sad and faultless features of the already famous beauty who sat beside her.  Unconsciously, as he realized it, he forgot that he was expected to speak.