Bosio Macomer was a refined man, not only by education and outward contact with the refinements he sought in others, but within himself and by predisposition of nature.  He read much, and found beauties in books which his friends thought dull, but which appealed tenderly to his innate love of tenderness.  He had probably lost many illusions, but the sweetest of them all was still fresh in him, for he loved nature unaffectedly.  In an unobtrusive way he was something of an artist, and was fond of going out by himself, when in the country, to sketch and dream all day.  Veronica did not understand how with such tastes he could bear the life in the Palazzo Macomer, for months at a time.  He was free to go and come as he pleased, and since he preferred the country, she wondered why he did not live out of town altogether.  His existence was the more incomprehensible to her, as he rarely lost an opportunity of finding fault with Naples as a city and with the Neapolitans as human beings.  Sometimes he did not leave the house for many days, as he frankly admitted, preferring the little apartment in the upper story of the house, where he lived independently, with one old servant, amongst his books and his pictures, appearing downstairs only at dinner, and not always then.  His place was always ready for him, but no one ever remarked his absence, nor inquired where he might be when he chose to stay away.

He was on excellent terms with every one.  The servants adored him, while they feared his brother and disliked the countess; when he appeared he never failed to kiss the countess’s hand, and to exchange a friendly word or two with Gregorio; but as for the latter, Bosio made no secret of the fact that he preferred the society of the ladies of the household to that of the count, with whom he had little in common.  He certainly admired his sister-in-law, and more than once frankly confessed to Veronica that in his opinion Matilde Macomer was still the most beautiful woman in the world.  Yet Veronica had observed that he was critical of looks in other women, and she thought his criticisms generally just and in good taste.  For her part, however, if he chose to consider her middle-aged aunt lovely, Veronica would not contradict him, for she was cautious in a certain degree, and in spite of herself she distrusted her surroundings.

There were times when the Countess Macomer inspired her with confidence.  Those very beautiful dark eyes of hers had but one defect, namely, that they were quite too near together; but they were still the best features in the elder woman’s face, and when Veronica looked at them from such an angle as not to notice their relative position, she almost believed that she could trust them.  But she never liked the smooth red lips, nor the over-pointed nose, which had something of the falcon’s keenness without its nobility.  The thick and waving brown hair grew almost too low on the white forehead, and, whether by art or nature, the eyebrows were too broad