He had grasped her hand—­he was covering it with hot kisses.  He was so heated with wine and beauty, and a sense of wrong, he had lost all self-command.

Nera did not withdraw her hand.  Her eyelids dropped, and she replied, softly: 

“Help you?  Oh! so willingly.  Could you see my heart you would understand me.”

She stopped.

“You can make all right,” urged Nobili, maddened by her seductions.

Again that waltz was buzzing in his ears.  Nobili was about to clasp her in his arms, and ask her he knew not what, when Nera rose, and seated herself upon a chair opposite to him.

“You leave me,” cried Nobili, piteously, seizing her dress.  “That is not helping me.”

“I must know what you want,” she answered, settling the folds of her dress about her.  “Of course, in making this marriage, you have weighed all the consequences?  I take that for granted.”

As Nera spoke she leaned her head upon her hand; the rich beauty of her face was brought under the lamp’s full light.

“I thought I had,” was Nobili’s reply, recalled by her movement to himself, and speaking with more composure—­“I thought I had—­but within the last three hours every thing is changed.  I have been insulted at the club.”

“Ah!—­you must expect that sort of thing if you marry Enrica Guinigi.  That is inevitable.”

Nobili knit his brows.  This was hard from her.

“What reason do you give for this?” he asked, trying to master his feelings.  “I came to ask you this.”

“Reason, my dear count?” and a smile parted Nera’s lips.  “A very obvious reason.  Why force me to name it?  No one can respect you if you make such a marriage.  You will be always liked—­you are so charming.”  She paused to fling an amorous glance upon him.  “Why did you select the Guinigi girl?” The question was sharply put.  “The marchesa would never receive you.  Why choose her niece?”

“Because I liked her.”  Nobili was driven to bay.  “A man chooses the woman he likes.”

“How strange!” exclaimed Nera, throwing up her hands.  “How strange!—­A pale-faced school-girl!  But—­ha! ha!”—­(that discordant laugh almost betrayed her)—­“she is not so, it seems.”

Nobili changed color.  With every word Nera uttered, he grew hot or cold, soothed or wild, by turns.  Nera watched it all.  She read Nobili like a book.

“How cunning Enrica Guinigi must be!—­very cunning!” Nera repeated as if the idea had just struck her.  “The marchesa’s tool!—­They are so poor!—­Her niece!  Che vuole!—­The family blood!  Anyhow, Enrica has caught you, Nobili.”

Nera leaned back, drew out a fan from behind a cushion, and swayed it to and fro.

“Not yet,” gasped Nobili—­“not yet.”

And Nobili had listened to Nera’s cruel words, and had not risen up and torn out the lying tongue that uttered them!  He had sat and heard Enrica torn to pieces as a panting dove is severed by a hawk limb by limb!  Even now Nobili’s better nature, spite of the glamour of this woman, told him he was a coward to listen to such words, but his good angel had veiled her wings and fled.