“Believe me, Signore Conte,” he says, advancing cautiously a step or two forward into the room, a deprecating look on his face—­“believe me—­this intrusion”—­Guglielmi turns to Enrica, grins again palpably, then bows—­“is not of my seeking.”

“Tell me instantly what brings you here?” demands Nobili, advancing.  (Nobili would have liked beyond measure to relieve his feelings by kicking him.)

“It is just that”—­Guglielmi cannot refrain from another glance round before he proceeds—­(yes, they are reconciled, no doubt of it.  The judgeship is his own!  Evviva!  The illustrious personage—­so notoriously careful of his subject’s morals—­who had deigned to interest himself in the marriage, might possibly, at the birth of a son and heir to the Guinigi, add a pension—­who knows?  At this reflection the lawyer’s eyes become altogether unmanageable)—­“it is just that,” repeats Guglielmi, making a desperate effort to collect himself.  “Personally I should have declined it, personally; but the marchesa’s commands were absolute:  ’You must go yourself, I will permit no deputy.’”

“Damn the marchesa!  Shall I never be rid of the marchesa?”

Nobili’s aspect is becoming menacing.  Maestro Guglielmi is not a man easily daunted; yet once within the room, and the desired evidence obtained, he cannot but feel all the awkwardness of his position.  Greatly as Guglielmi had been tickled at the notion of becoming himself a witness in his own case, to do him justice he would not have volunteered it.

“The marchesa sent me,” he stammers, conscious of Count Nobili’s indignation (with his arms crossed, Count Nobili is eying Guglielmi from head to foot).  “The marchesa sent me to know—­”

Nobili unfolds his arms, walks straight up to where Guglielmi is standing, and shakes his fist in his face.

“Do you know, Signore Avvocato, that you are committing an intolerable impertinence?  If you do not instantly quit this room, or give me some excellent reason for remaining, you shall very speedily have my opinion of your conduct in a very decided manner.”

Count Nobili is decidedly dangerous.  He glares at Guglielmi like a very devil.  Guglielmi falls back.  The false smile is upon his lips, but his treacherous eyes express his terror.  Guglielmi’s combats are only with words, his weapon the pen; otherwise he is powerless.

“Excuse me, Count Nobili, excuse me,” he stammers.  He rubs his hands nervously together and watches Nobili, who is following him step by step.  “It is not my fault—­I give you my word—­not my fault.  Don’t look so, count; you really alarm me.  I am here as a man of peace—­I entreated the marchesa to retire to rest.  I represented to her the peculiar delicacy of the position, but I grieve to say she insisted.”

Nobili is now close to him; his eyes are gathered upon him more threateningly than ever.

“Remember, sir, you are addressing me in the presence of my wife—­be careful.”