“By the name of Heaven,” swore the old count, “if she wants to marry a singer, she shall.”  He limped to the door in sullen anger, and went out.  Nino turned to the prostrate figure of the poor baroness.  The continued strain on her nerves had broken her down, and she lay on the floor in a dead faint.  Nino put a cushion from the lounge under her head, and rang the bell.  The servant appeared instantly.

“Bring water quickly!” he cried.  “The signora has fainted.”  He stood looking at the senseless figure of the woman, as she lay across the rich Persian rugs that covered the floor.

“Why did you not bring salts, cologne, her maid—­run, I tell you!” he said to the man, who brought the glass of water on a gilded tray.  He had forgotten that the fellow could not be expected to have any sense.  When her people came at last, he had sprinkled her face, and she had unconsciously swallowed enough of the water to have some effect in reviving her.  She began to open her eyes, and her fingers moved nervously.  Nino found his hat, and, casting one glance around the room that had just witnessed such strange doings, passed through the door and went out.  The baroness was left with her servants.  Poor woman!  She did very wrong, perhaps, but anybody would have loved her—­except Nino.  She must have been terribly shaken, one would have thought, and she ought to have gone to lie down, and should have sent for the doctor to bleed her.  But she did nothing of the kind.

She came to see me.  I was alone in the house, late in the afternoon, when the sun was just gilding the tops of the houses.  I heard the door-bell ring, and I went to answer it myself.  There stood the beautiful baroness, alone, with all her dark soft things around her, as pale as death, and her eyes swollen sadly with weeping.  Nino had come home and told me something about the scene in the morning, and I can tell you I gave him a piece of my mind about his follies.

“Does Professor Cornelio Grandi live here?” she asked, in a low, sad voice.

“I am he, signora,” I answered.  “Will you please to come in?” And so she came into our little sitting-room, and sat over there in the old green arm-chair.  I shall never forget it as long as I live.

I cannot tell you all she said in that brief half-hour, for it pains me to think of it.  She spoke as though I were her confessor, so humbly and quietly,—­as though it had all happened ten years ago.  There is no stubbornness in those tiger women when once they break down.

She said she was going away; that she had done my boy a great wrong, and wished to make such reparation as she could, by telling me, at least, the truth.  She did not scruple to say that she had loved him, nor that she had done everything in her power to keep him; though he had never so much as looked at her, she added, pathetically.  She wished to have me know exactly how it happened, no matter what I might think of her.