The strong perfume of the magnolia-blossoms, still white upon the boughs, is wafted upward to the open window of the marchesa’s sitting-room; the sun is low, and the shadows of the pointed arches double themselves upon the ground.  Shadows, too, high up the horizon, penetrate into the room, and strike across the variegated scagliola floor, and upon a table in the centre, on which a silver tray is placed, with glasses of lemonade.  Round the table are ranged chairs of tarnished gilding, and a small settee with spindle-legs.

In her present phase of life, the squalor of these rooms is congenial to the marchesa.  Hitherto reckless of expense, especially in law, she has all at once grown parsimonious to excess.  As to the effect this change may produce on others, and whether this mode of life is in keeping with the stately palace she inhabits, the marchesa does not care in the least; it pleases her, that is enough.  All her life she has been quite clear on two points—­her belief in herself, and her belief in the name she bears.

The marchesa leans back on a high-backed chair and frowns.  To frown is so habitual to her that the wrinkles on her forehead and between her eyebrows are prematurely deepened.  She has a long, sallow face, a straight nose, keen black eyes, a high forehead, and a thin-lipped mouth.  She is upright, and well made; and the folds of her plain black dress hang about her tall figure with a certain dignity.  Her dark hair, now sprinkled with white, is fully dressed, the bands combed low on her forehead.  She wears no ornament, except the golden cross of a chanoinesse.

As she leans back on her high-backed chair she silently observes her niece, seated near the open window, knitting.

“If she had been my child!” was the marchesa’s thought.  “Why was I denied a child?” And she sighed.

The rays of the setting sun dance among the ripples of Enrica’s blond hair, and light up the dazzling whiteness of her skin.  Seen thus in profile, although her features are regular, and her expression full of sweetness, it is rather the promise than the perfection of actual beauty—­the rose-bud—­by-and-by to expand into the perfect flower.

There was a knock at the door, and a ruddy old face looked in.  It is the Cavaliere Trenta, in his official blue coat and gold buttons, nankeen inexpressibles, a broad-brimmed white hat and a gold-headed cane in his hand.  Whatever speck of dust might have had the audacity to venture to settle itself upon any part of the cavaliere’s official blue coat, must at once have hidden its diminished head after peeping at the cavaliere’s beaming countenance, so scrubbed and shiny, the white hair so symmetrically arranged upon his forehead in little curls—­his whole appearance so neat and trim.

“Is it permitted to enter?” he asked, smiling blandly at the marchesa, as, leaning upon his stick, he made her a ceremonious bow.

“Yes, Cesarino, yes, you may enter,” she replied, stiffly.  “I cannot very well send you away now—­but you deserve it.”