“Are you sure that he goes to Venice alone at night?” she asked, after a little pause.

“Am I sure that I live, that I belong to you, and that my name is Nella?  Is not the boat moored under my window?  Did I not hear the chain rattling softly last night?  I got up and looked out, and I saw Zorzi, as I see you, taking the padlock off.  I am not blind—­praise be to heaven, I see.  He turned the boat to the left, so he must have been going to Venice, and it was at least an hour after the midnight bells when I heard the chain again, and I looked out, and there he was.  But he did not come into the house.  And this morning I saw him coming out of the glass-house, just as the men went in.  He was as pale as a boiled chicken.”

Marietta had seen him, too, and the coincidence gave colour to the rest of the woman’s tale, as would have happened if the whole story had been an invention instead of being quite true.  Nella was combing the girl’s thick hair, an operation peculiarly conducive to a maid’s chattering, for she has the certainty that her mistress cannot get away, and must therefore listen patiently.

A shadow had fallen on the brightness of Marietta’s morning.  She was paler, too, but she said nothing.

“Of course he was tired,” continued Nella.  “Did you suppose that he would come back with pink cheeks and bright eyes, like a baby from baptism, after being out half the night?”

“He is always pale,” said Marietta.

“Because he goes to Venice every night,” retorted Nella viciously.  “That is the good reason!  Oh, I am sure of it!  And besides, I shall watch him, now that I know.  I shall see him whenever he takes the boat.”

“It is none of your business where he goes,” answered Marietta.  “It does not concern any one but himself.”

“Oh, indeed!” sneered Nella.  “Then the honour of the house does not matter!  It is no concern of ours!  And your father need never know that his trusty servant, his clever assistant, his faithful confidant, who shares all his secrets, is a good-for-nothing fellow who spends his nights in gambling, or drinking, or perhaps in making love to some Venetian girl as honourable and well behaved as himself!”

Marietta had grown steadily more angry while Nella was talking.  She had her father’s temper, though she could control it better than he.

“I will find out whether this story is true,” she said coldly.  “If it is not, it will be the worse for you.  You shall not serve me any longer, unless you can be more careful in what you say.”

Nella’s jaw dropped and her hands stood still and trembled, the one holding the comb upraised, the other gathering a quantity of her mistress’s hair.  Marietta had never spoken to her like this in her life.

“Send me away?” faltered the woman in utter amazement.  “Send me away!” she repeated, still quite dazed.  “But it is impossible—­” her voice began to break, as if some one were shaking her violently by the shoulders.  “Oh no, no!  You w-ill n-ot—­no-o-o!”