“Out of the ballroom,” continued Trenta, eying him with quiet scorn, “I advise caution—­great caution.  Out of the ballroom you are capable of any imbecility.”

“Cavaliere!” cried Baldassare, turning very red and looking at him reproachfully.

“You have deserved this reproof, young man,” said the marchesa, harshly.  “Learn your place in addressing the Count Marescotti.”

That the son of a shopkeeper should presume to dispute in her presence with a Roman noble, was a thing so unsuitable that, even in her own house, she must put it down authoritatively.  She had never liked Baldassare—­never wanted to receive him, now she resolved never to see him again; but, as she feared that Trenta would continue to bring him, under pretext of making up her whist-table, she did not say so.

The medical Adonis was forced to swallow his rage, but his cheeks tingled.  He dared not quarrel either with the marchesa, Trenta, or the count, by whose joint support alone he could hope to plant himself firmly in the realms of Lucchese fashionable life—­a life which he felt was his element.  Utterly disconcerted, however, he turned down his eyes, and stared at his boots, which were highly glazed, then glanced up at his own face (as faultless and impassive as a Greek mask) in a mirror opposite, hastily arranged his hair, and finally collapsed into silence and a corner.

At this moment Count Marescotti became suddenly aware of Enrica’s presence.  She was, as I have said, sitting in the same place by the casement, concealed by the curtain, her head bent down over her knitting.  She had only looked up once when Nobili’s name had been mentioned.  No one had noticed her.  It was not the usage of Casa Guinigi to notice Enrica.  Enrica was not the marchesa’s daughter; therefore, except in marriage, she was not entitled to enjoy the honors of the house.  She was never permitted to take part in conversation.

Marescotti, who had not seen her since she was fourteen, now bounded across the room to where she sat, overshadowed by the curtain, bowed to her formally, then touched the tips of her fingers with his lips.

Enrica raised her eyes.  And what eyes they were!—­large, melancholy, brooding, of no certain color, changing as she spoke, as the summer sky changes the color of the sea.  They were more gray than blue, yet they were blue, with long, dark eyelashes that swept upon her cheeks.  As she looked up and smiled, there was an expression of the most perfect innocence in her face.  It was like a flower that opens its bosom frankly to the sun.

Marescotti’s artistic nature was deeply stirred.  He gazed at her in silence for some minutes; he was seeking in his own mind in what type of womanhood he should place her.  Suddenly an idea struck him.—­She was the living image of the young Madonna—­the young Madonna before the visit of the archangel—­pale, meditative, pathetic, but with no shadow of the future upon her face.  Marescotti was so engrossed by this idea that he remained motionless before her.  Each one present observed his emotion, the marchesa specially; she frowned her disapproval.