“May I,” said he, suddenly roused to what was passing about him, and advancing with a gracious smile upon his mobile face, lit up by the pleasant musings of the whist-table—­pleasant to him, but assuredly not pleasant to his partner—­“may I hope, marchesa, that you will acquiesce in our little plan for to-morrow?”

The marchesa had come by this time to look on the count as a bore, of whom she was anxious to rid herself.  She was so anxious, indeed, to rid herself of him that she actually assented.

“My niece, Signore Conte,” she said, stiffly, “shall be ready with her gouvernante and the Cavaliere Trenta, at eleven o’clock to-morrow.  Now—­good-night!”

Marescotti took the hint, bowed, and departed arm-in-arm with Baldassare.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CABINET COUNCIL.

When the count and Baldassare had left the room, Cavaliere Trenta made no motion to follow them.  On the contrary, he leaned back in the chair on which he was seated, and nursed his leg with the nankeen trouser meditatively.  The expression of his face showed that his thoughts were busy with some project he desired to communicate.  Until he had done so in his own way, and at his own time, he would continue to sit where he was.  It was this imperturbable self-possession and good-humor combined which gave him so much influence over the irascible marchesa.  They were as iron to fire, only the iron was never heated.

The marchesa, deeply resenting his remarks upon her whist playing, tapped her foot impatiently on the floor, fanned herself, and glowered at him out of the darkness which the single pair of candles did not dispel.  As he still made no motion to go, she took out her watch, looked at it, and, with an exclamation of surprise, rose.  Quite useless.  Trenta did not stir.

“Marchesa,” he said at last, abruptly, raising his head and looking at her, “do me the favor to sit down.  Spare me a few moments before you retire.”

“I want to go to bed,” she answered, rudely.  “It is already past my usual hour.”

“Marchesa—­one moment.  I permitted myself the liberty of an old friend just now—­to check your speech to Count Marescotti.”

“Yes,” said she, drawing up her long throat, and throwing back her head, an action habitual to her when displeased, “you did so.  I did not understand it.  We have been acquainted quite long enough for you to know I do not like interference.”

“Pardon me, noble lady”—­(Trenta spoke very meekly—­to soothe her now was absolutely necessary)—­“pardon me, for the sake of my good intentions.”

“And pray what were your good intentions, cavaliere?” she asked, in a mocking tone, reseating herself.  Her curiosity was rapidly getting the better of her resentment.

As she asked the question, the cavaliere left off nursing his leg with the nankeen trouser, rose, drew his chair closer to hers, then sat down again.  The light from the single pair of candles was very dim, and scarcely extended beyond the card-table.  Both their heads were therefore in shadow, but the marchesa’s eyes gleamed nevertheless, as she waited for Trenta’s explanation.