The princess, within easy earshot, was busily writing at her desk.  But after a while, in answer to an appealing look from Giovanni, she left the room.  Nina felt no surprise either at Giovanni’s appeal or at her aunt’s response.  She knew very well what he would say, and she had long been trying to make up her mind what her answer should be.  Yet no sooner had the portieres closed than an unaccountable dread took possession of her, and she had an overwhelming desire to escape.

She knitted industriously, her head bent, her eyes intent upon her needles.  For a while Giovanni lay back against the pillows, idly watching her progress; then he raised himself on his unbandaged elbow and leaned forward.  Even this exertion revealed his weakness:  an increasing pallor overspread his transparent features, and he spoke as sick people do—­with difficulty and as though out of breath:  “Mademoiselle, you know—­what I have in my heart—­to say——­”

“Don’t, ah—­please——­” Nina sprang up and put out her hand in protest.

But he paid no heed.  “Donna Nina,” he implored, “will you do me the honor to be my wife? Carissima mia—­” she heard his voice as though from afar, as he fell back against the pillow—­“I love you!  Even a portion of how much I love you would fill a life!” He took her hand as she stood beside him, and pressed it to his lips.

She felt how thin his hand was, and how it trembled.  Her conscience smote her—­it was all because of her!  And for a moment the answer that he sought hung on the very tip of her tongue—­hung, faltered—­and then raced down her throat again.  Her hand drew away from his clasp, and she almost sobbed, “I can’t, I can’t.  Oh, I would if I could—­but I can’t!”

Then she heard him say gently:  “Give me an answer later—­I am not such, just now, that I can hold my own—­I will wait till I am strong again.  Will you give me your answer then?” Half choking, she nodded her head in assent and hurried from the room.

St. Anthony, the great Dane, who, since Giovanni’s illness, had attached himself to Nina, stalked after her.  She went through the intervening rooms into the picture gallery, and there dropped down upon a low marble seat and took the big dog’s head in her arms.

She believed in Giovanni’s disinterestedness; he had given her every reason to think he truly loved her.  It seemed to her that she had seen his real feeling grow gradually.  If she could believe in any one ever, she must believe in him.  Even the astute little Zoya Olisco had confirmed the impression by saying that all Rome knew that Giovanni cared nothing for money.  There had been a very rich girl—­all the fortune hunters were after her—­and she was so strongly attracted to Giovanni that she made no effort to disguise her preference for him.  But he showed no inclination to marry a rich wife.