“Suppose that she will not go, what then?”

“It can only be a question of money, my dear lady.  Leave that to me.  Marcello is not the first young fellow who has been in a scrape!”

Still Maddalena did not trust him, and she merely nodded with an air of doubt.

“Shall I not see Aurora?” he asked suddenly.

“She is out,” answered the Contessa.  “I will tell her that you asked after her.”

“Is she as beautiful as ever?” inquired Folco.

“She is a very pretty girl.”

“She is beautiful,” Folco said, with conviction.  “I have never seen such a beautiful girl as she was, even when she was not quite grown up.  No one ever had such hair and such eyes, and such a complexion!”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Maddalena with a little surprise.  “I had no idea that you thought her so good-looking!”

“I always did.  As for Marcello, we used to think he would never have eyes for any one else.”

“Young people who have known each other well as children rarely fall in love when they grow up,” answered Maddalena.

“So much the better,” Folco said.  “Aurora and Marcello are not at all suited to one another.”

“That is true,” answered the Contessa.

“And besides, he is much too young for her.  They are nearly of the same age.”

“I never thought of their marrying,” replied Maddalena, with a little emphasis, “and I should certainly not choose this time to think of it!”

“I fancy few men can look at your daughter without wishing that they might marry her, my dear lady,” said Corbario, rising to go away.  “Pray present my homage to her, and tell her how very sorry I am not to have seen her.”

He smiled as if he were only half in earnest, and he took his leave.  He was scarcely gone when Aurora entered the sitting-room by another door.

“Was it Marcello?” she asked quietly enough, though her voice sounded a little dull.

“No, dear,” answered her mother.  “It was Folco Corbario.  I wrote to him some days ago and he came to see me.  Marcello has left Paris.  I did not know you had come home.”

Aurora sat down rather wearily, pulled out her hatpins, and laid her hat on her knee.  Then she slowly turned it round and round, examining every inch of it with profound attention, as women do.  They see things in hats which we do not.

“Mamma—­” Aurora got no further, and went on turning the hat round.

“Yes?  What were you going to say?”

“Nothing—­I have forgotten.”  The hat revolved steadily.  “Are we going to stay here long?”

“No.  Paris is too expensive.  When we have got the few things we want we will go back to Italy—­next week, I should think.”

“I wish we were rich,” observed Aurora.

“I never heard you say that before,” answered her mother.  “But after all, wishing does no harm, and I am silly enough to wish we were rich too.”