“I fear I come out of season,” he said, apologetically, as he bent over her hand.

“On the contrary,” she answered; “but forgive me if I speak one word to Professor Cardegna.”  She went to where Nino was standing.

“Go into that room,” she said, in a very low voice, glancing towards a curtained door opposite the windows, “and wait till he goes.  You may listen if you choose.”  She spoke authoritatively.

“I will not,” answered Nino, in a determined whisper.

“You will not?” Her eyes flashed again.  He shook his head.

“Count von Lira,” she said aloud, turning to him, “do you know this young man?” She spoke in Italian, and Von Lira answered in the same language; but as what he said was not exactly humorous, I will spare you the strange construction of his sentences.

“Perfectly,” he answered.  “It is precisely concerning this young man that I desire to speak with you.”  The count remained standing because the baroness had not told him to be seated.

“That is fortunate,” replied the baroness, “for I wish to inform you that he is a villain, a wretch, a miserable fellow!” Her anger was rising again, but she struggled to control it.  When Nino realised what she said he came forward and stood near the count, facing the baroness, his arms folded on his breast, as though to challenge accusation.  The count raised his eyebrows.

“I am aware that he concealed his real profession so long as he gave my daughter lessons.  That, however, has been satisfactorily explained, though I regret it.  Pray inform me why you designate him as a villain.”  Nino felt a thrill of sympathy for this man whom he had so long deceived.

“This man, sir,” said she, in measured tones, “this low-born singer, who has palmed himself off on us as a respectable instructor in language, has the audacity to love your daughter.  For the sake of pressing his odious suit he has wormed himself into your house as into mine; he has sung beneath your daughter’s window, and she has dropped letters to him,—­love-letters, do you understand?  And now,”—­her voice rose more shrill and uncontrollable at every word, as she saw Lira’s face turn white, and her anger gave desperate utterance to the lie,—­“and now he has the effrontery to come to me—­to me—­to me of all women—­and to confess his abominable passion for that pure angel, imploring me to assist him in bringing destruction upon her and you.  Oh, it is execrable, it is vile, it is hellish!” She pressed her hands to her temples as she stood, and glared at the two men.  The count was a strong man, easily petulant, but hard to move to real anger.  Though his face was white and his right hand clutched his crutch-stick, he still kept the mastery of himself.

“Is what you tell me true, madam?” he asked in a strange voice.

“Before God, it is true!” she cried, desperately.