“Indeed, it would be the better for you if I should,” he answered bitterly, but without attempting to free his wrists from the strong, soft grip.

“But you will,” she murmured, passionately.  “You are killing me by leaving me.  Can you not see it?” Her voice melted away in the tearful cadence.  But Nino stood gazing at her as stonily as though he were the Sphinx.  How could he have the heart?  I cannot tell.  Long she looked into his eyes, silently; but she might as well have tried to animate a piece of iron, so stern and hard he was.  Suddenly, with a strong convulsive movement, she flung his hands from her.

“Go!” she cried hoarsely.  “Go to that wax doll you love, and see whether she will love you, or care whether you leave her or not!  Go, go, go!  Go to her!” She had sprung far back from him, and now pointed to the door, drawn to her full height and blazing in her wrath.

“I would advise you, madam, to speak with proper respect of any lady with whom you choose to couple my name.”  His lips opened and shut mechanically, and he trembled from head to foot.

“Respect!” She laughed wildly.  “Respect for a mere child whom you happen to fancy!  Respect, indeed, for anything you choose to do!  I—­I—­respect Hedwig von Lira?  Ha! ha!” and she rested her hand on the table behind her, as she laughed.

“Be silent, madam,” said Nino, and he moved a step nearer, and stood with folded arms.

“Ah!  You would silence me now, would you?  You would rather not hear me speak of your midnight serenades, and your sweet letters dropped from the window of her room at your feet?” But her rage overturned itself, and with a strange cry she fell into a deep chair, and wept bitterly, burying her face in her two hands.  “Miserable woman that I am!” she sobbed, and her whole lithe body was convulsed.

“You are indeed,” said Nino, and he turned once more to go.  But as he turned, the servant threw back the curtain.

“The Signor Conte di Lira,” he announced, in distinct tones.  For a moment there was a dead silence, during which, in spite of his astonishment at the sudden appearance of the count, Nino had time to reflect that the baroness had caused him to be watched during the previous night.  It might well be, and the mistake she made in supposing the thing Hedwig had dropped to be a letter told him that her spy had not ventured very near.

The tall count came forward under the raised curtains, limping and helping himself with his stick.  His face was as gray and wooden as ever, but his moustaches had an irritated, crimped look that Nino did not like.  The count barely nodded to the young man as he stood aside to let the old gentleman pass; his eyes turned mechanically to where the baroness sat.  She was a woman who had no need to simulate passion in any shape, and it must have cost her a terrible effort to control the paroxysm of anger and shame and grief that had overcome her.  There was something unnatural and terrifying in her sudden calm, as she forced herself to rise and greet her visitor.