“In truth,” he said, “the Signora Baronessa’s lessons consisted chiefly—­”

“In teaching me pronunciation,” interrupted the baroness, trying to remove Hedwig’s veil and hat, somewhat against the girl’s inclination.  “Yes, you see how it is.  I know a little of singing, but I cannot pronounce—­not in the least.  Ah, these Italian vowels will be the death of me!  But if there is anyone who can teach a poor dilettante to pronounce them,” she added, laying the hat away on a chair, and pushing a footstool to Hedwig’s feet, “that someone is Signor Cardegna.”

By this time Nino had recognised the propriety of temporising; that is to say, of letting the baroness’s fib pass for what it was worth, lest the discussion of the subject should further offend Hedwig, whose eyes wandered irresolutely toward him, as though she would say something if he addressed her.

“I hope, signorina,” he said, “that it is not quite as the baroness says.  I trust our lessons are not at an end?” He knew very well that they were.

“I think, Signor Cardegna,” said Hedwig, with more courage than would have been expected from such a mere child,—­she is twenty, but Northern people are not grown up till they are thirty, at least,—­“I think it would have been more obliging if, when I asked you so much about your cousin, you had acknowledged that you had no cousin, and that the singer was none other than yourself.”  She blushed, perhaps, but the curtain of the window hid it.

“Alas, signorina,” answered Nino, still standing before her, “such a confession would have deprived me of the pleasure—­of the honour of giving you lessons.”

“And pray, Signor Cardegna,” put in the baroness, “what are a few paltry lessons compared with the pleasure you ought to have experienced in satisfying the Contessina di Lira’s curiosity.  Really, you have little courtesy.”

Nino shrank into himself, as though he were hurt, and he gave the baroness a look which said worlds.  She smiled at him, in joy of her small triumph, for Hedwig was looking at the floor again and could not see.  But the young girl had strength in her, for all her cold looks and white cheek.

“You can atone, Signor Cardegna,” she said.  Nino’s face brightened.

“How, signorina?” he asked.

“By singing to us now,” said Hedwig.  The baroness looked grave, for she well knew what a power Nino wielded with his music.

“Do not ask him,” she protested.  “He must be tired,—­tired to death, with all he went through last night.”

“Tired?” ejaculated Nino, with some surprise.  “I tired?  I was never tired in my life of singing.  I will sing as long as you will listen.”  He went to the piano.  As he turned, the baroness laid her hand on Hedwig’s affectionately, as though sympathising with something she supposed to be passing in the girl’s mind.  But Hedwig was passive, unless a little shudder at the first touch of the baroness’s fingers might pass for