He was painfully shy and embarrassed, and was producing anything but a favourable impression upon Veronica.  She was sorry for him, indeed, in a superior sort of fashion, but she thought of Taquisara’s bold eyes and strong face, and of Bosio Macomer’s quiet and refined assurance of manner, and Gianluca seemed to her slightly ridiculous.  It was in her blood, and she could not help it.  Some of her people had been bad, and some good, but most of them had been strong, and she liked strength, as a natural consequence.  Moreover, she had not enough experience of the world to put Gianluca at his ease; and a sort of girlish feeling that she must not encourage him to say too much made her answer in such a way as to throw him off his track.

“It is very kind of you to say so,” she answered lightly.  “But I am sure I do not recollect ever saying anything important enough for you to remember.  Take what we are saying now, for instance—­”

“I shall know it all, when you are gone,” interrupted Gianluca, harking back again.  “Indeed—­I hope you will not think me rude or presumptuous—­but I thought that perhaps I might meet you here—­if I came often, I mean; for Taquisara—­”

“Oh yes,” said Veronica, as he hesitated.  “I met Baron Taquisara here yesterday.  I daresay that he told you so.”

As his embarrassment had increased, hers had completely disappeared—­which was a bad sign for him and his hopes.

“Yes—­yes.  He told me—­”

Gianluca leaned back suddenly in his seat, overcome with a sort of shame at the thought that Taquisara had spoken to her for him, and that he himself could find nothing to say.  His face pale and red, and his hands trembled.

“I like your friend,” said Veronica, quietly, wondering whether he felt ill.

“Yes—­I am glad,” answered Gianluca.  “He is a true friend, a good friend.  If you knew him as well as I do, you would like him still better.”

Veronica thought this probable, but refrained from saying so, and remained silent.  Bianca was touching gentle chords at the piano.  Now and then a few words, sung in deep, soft notes, sad as the south wind, floated through the room, and then she and Ghisleri talked about the song, paying no attention whatever to the pair on the sofa.

Gianluca sighed and caught his breath.  Veronica glanced quickly at him, and then looked again at the top of Ghisleri’s head, as the latter bent down.  She had not thought that she had expected so much of the meeting.  She certainly had not the slightest personal feeling for the man beside her.  And yet, somehow, she was dismally disappointed.  If this was the man who was dying of love, she infinitely preferred Bosio Macomer.  Gianluca was evidently in bad health.  He looked as though he might be in a decline, and he was clearly very nervous and ill at ease.  But he did not speak at all as she supposed that a man would who was deeply in love.  Taquisara had spoken far better.  He had seemed so much in earnest that if he had suddenly substituted himself for Gianluca as the subject of his phrases, Veronica could have believed him easily enough.