Trenta laughed quietly to himself, then stroked his well-shaved chin.

“Signorina,” said the count, at length breaking silence, “permit me to offer my excuses for not having sooner perceived you.  Will you forgive me?”

“Mio Dio!” muttered the marchesa to herself, “he will turn the child’s head with his fine phrases.”

“I have nothing to forgive, count,” answered Enrica simply.  She spoke low.  Her voice matched the expression of her face; there was a natural tone of plaintiveness in it.

“When I last saw you,” continued the count, standing as if spellbound before her, “you were only a child.  Now,” and his kindling eyes riveted themselves upon her, “you are a woman.  Like the magic rose that was the guerdon of the Troubadours, you have passed in an hour from leaf to bud, from bud to fairest flower.  You were, of course, at the Orsetti ball last night?” He asked this question, trying to rouse himself.  “What ball in Lucca would be complete without you?”

“I was not there,” answered Enrica, blushing deeply and glancing timidly at the marchesa, who, with a scowl on her face, was fanning herself violently.

“Not there!” ejaculated Marescotti, with wonder.—­“Why, marchesa, is it not barbarous to shut up your beautiful niece?  Is it because you deem her too precious to be gazed upon?  If so, you are right.”

And again his eyes, full of ardent admiration, were bent on Enrica.

Enrica dropped her head to hide her confusion, and resumed her knitting.

It was a golden sunset.  The sun was sinking behind the delicate arcades of the Moorish garden, and spreading broad patches of rosy light upon the marble.  The shrubs, with their bright flowers, were set against a tawny orange sky.  The air was full of light—­the last gleams of parting day.  The splash of the fountain upon the lion’s heads was heard in the silence, the heavy perfume of the magnolia-flowers stole in wafts through the sculptured casements, creeping upward in the soft evening air.

Still, motionless before Enrica, Marescotti was rapidly falling into a poetic rapture.  The marchesa broke the awkward silence.

“Enrica is a child,” she said, dryly.  “She knows nothing about balls.  She has never been to one.  Pray do not put such ideas into her head, count,” she added, looking at him angrily.

“But, marchesa, your niece is no child—­she is a lovely woman,” insisted the count, his eyes still riveted upon her.  The marchesa did not consider it necessary to answer him.

Meanwhile the cavaliere, who had returned to his seat near her, had watched the moment when no one was looking that way, had given her a significant glance, and placed his finger warningly upon his lip.

Not understanding what he meant by this action, the marchesa was at first inclined to resent it as a liberty, and to rebuke him; but she thought better of it, and only glanced at him haughtily.