“You know very well where I was—­at the Circolo Artistico.  How do you dare to think—­”

“Why are you so angry if there is no one else in the case?” asked Lucia, with a sudden sweetness, which belied the jealous glitter in her eyes.

“It seems to me that I have a right to be angry.  That you should suspect me after all these years!  How many times have I sworn to you that I went nowhere else?”

“What is the use of your swearing?  You do not believe in anything—­why should you swear?  Why should I believe you?”

“Oh—­if you talk like that, I have finished!” answered Gianbattista.  “But there—­you are only teasing me.  You believe me, just as I believe you.  Besides, as for swearing and believing in something besides you—­who knows?  I love you—­is not that enough?”

Lucia’s eyes softened as they rested on the young man’s face.  She knew he loved her.  She only wanted to be told so once more.

“There is Marzio,” said Don Paolo, as a key rattled in the latch of the outer door.

“At this hour!” exclaimed the Signora Pandolfi, suddenly waking up and rubbing her eyes with her fat fingers.

CHAPTER III

Marzio, having divested himself of his heavy coat and hat, appeared at the door of the sitting-room.

Everybody looked at him, as though to discern the signs of his temper, and no one was perceptibly reassured by the sight of his white face and frowning forehead.

“Well, most reverend canon,” he began, addressing Don Paolo, “I am in time to congratulate you, it seems.  It was natural that I should be the last to hear of your advancement, through the papers.”

“Thank you,” answered Don Paolo quietly.  “I came to tell you the news.”

“You are very considerate,” returned Marzio.  “I have news also; for you all.”  He paused a moment, as though to give greater effect to the statement he was about to make.  “I refer,” he continued very slowly, “to the question of Lucia’s marriage.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the priest.  “I am glad if it is to be arranged at last.”

The other persons in the room held their breath.  The young girl blushed deeply under her white skin, and Gianbattista grew pale as he laid aside his pencil and shaded his eyes with his hands.  The Signora Pandolfi panted with excitement and trembled visibly as she looked at her husband.  His dark figure stood out strongly from the background of the shabby blue wall paper, and the petroleum lamp cast deep shadows in the hollows of his face.

“Yes,” he continued, “I talked yesterday with Gasparo Carnesecchi—­you know, he is the lawyer I always consult.  He is a clever fellow and understands these matters.  We talked of the contract; I thought it better to consult him, you see, and he thinks the affair can be arranged in a couple of weeks.  He is so intelligent.  A marvel of astuteness; we discussed the whole matter, I say, and it is to be concluded as soon as possible.  So now, my children—­”