“Signor De Pretis,” said the count, with a certain quaint geniality, “I have my precautions observed.  I examined Signor Cardegna in Italian literature in my own person, and him proficient found.  Had I found him to be ignorant, and had I his talents as an operatic singer later discovered, I would you out of that window have projected.”  De Pretis was alarmed, for the old count looked as though he would have carried out the threat.  “As it is,” he concluded, “you are an honourable man, and I wish you good-morning.  Lady Hedwig awaits you as usual.”  He rose courteously, leaning on his stick, and De Pretis bowed himself out.

He expected that the contessina would immediately begin talking of Nino, but he was mistaken; she never once referred to the opera or the singer, and except that she looked pale and transparent, and sang with a trifle less interest in her music than usual, there was nothing noticeable in her manner.  Indeed, she had every reason to be silent.

Early that morning Nino received by messenger a pretty little note, written in execrable Italian, begging him to come and breakfast with the baroness at twelve, as she much desired to speak with him after his stupendous triumph of the previous night.

Nino is a very good boy, but he is mortal, and after the excitement of the evening he thought nothing could be pleasanter than to spend a few hours in that scented boudoir, among the palms and the beautiful objects and the perfumes, talking with a woman who professed herself ready to help him in his love affair.  We have no perfumes or cushions or pretty things at number twenty-seven Santa Catarina dei Funari, though everything is very bright and neat and most proper, and the cat is kept in the kitchen, for the most part.  So it is no wonder that he should have preferred to spend the morning with the baroness.

She was half lying, half sitting, in a deep arm-chair, when Nino entered; and she was reading a book.  When she saw him she dropped the volume on her knee, and looked up at him from under her lids, without speaking.  She must have been a bewitching figure.  Nino advanced toward her, bowing low, so that his dark curling hair shaded his face.

“Good-day, signora,” said he softly, as though fearing to hurt the quiet air.  “I trust I do not interrupt you?”

“You never interrupt me, Nino,” she said, “except—­except when you go away.”

“You are very good, signora.”

“For heaven’s sake, no pretty speeches,” said she, with a little laugh.

“It seems to me,” said Nino, seating himself, “that it was you who made the pretty speech, and I who thanked you for it.”  There was a pause.

“How do you feel!” asked the baroness at last, turning her head to him.

“Grazie—­I am well,” he answered, smiling.

“Oh, I do not mean that,—­you are always well.  But how do you enjoy your first triumph?”

“I think,” said Nino, “that a real artist ought to have the capacity to enjoy a success at the moment, and the good sense to blame his vanity for enjoying it after it is passed.”