My son spoke the Neapolitan dialect perfectly, but he also spoke Italian very well, and in whatever he said I was glad to recognize taste, good sense, and intelligence.  He was well-informed, though he had been brought up at Naples, and his manners were very distinguished.  His mother made him sit between us at table.

“His favourite amusement,” she said to me, “is music.  You must hear him on the clavier, and though I am eight years older I shall not be surprised if you pronounce him the better performer.”

Only a woman’s delicate instinct could have suggested this remark; men hardly ever approach women in this respect.

Whether from natural impulses or self-esteem, I rose from the table so delighted with my son that I embraced him with the utmost tenderness, and was applauded by the company.  I asked everybody to dine with me the next day, and my invitation was joyfully accepted; but the Corticelli said, with the utmost simplicity,

“May I come, too?”

“Certainty; you too.”

After dinner the Abbe Gama asked me to breakfast with him, or to have him to breakfast the next morning, as he was longing for a good talk with me.

“Come and breakfast with me,” said I, “I shall be delighted to see you.”

When the guests had gone Don Cesarino, as the pretended brother of Therese was called, asked me if I would walk with him.  I kissed him, and replied that my carriage was at his service, and that he and his brother-in-law could drive in it, but that I had resolved not to leave his sister that day.  Palesi seemed quite satisfied with the arrangement, and they both went away.

When we were alone, I gave Therese an ardent embrace, and congratulated her on having such a brother.

“My dear, he is the fruit of our amours; he is your son.  He makes me happy, and is happy himself, and indeed he has everything to make him so.”

“And I, too, am happy, dear Therese.  You must have seen that I recognized him at once.”

“But do you want to give him a brother?  How ardent you are!”

“Remember, beloved one, that to-morrow we are to be friends, and nothing more.”

By this my efforts were crowned with success, but the thought that it was the last time was a bitter drop in the cup of happiness.

When we had regained our composure, Therese said,—­

“The duke who took me from Rimini brought up our child; as soon as I knew that I was pregnant I confided my secret to him.  No one knew of my delivery, and the child was sent to nurse at Sorrento, and the duke had him baptized under the name of Caesar Philip Land.  He remained at Sorrento till he was nine, and then he was boarded with a worthy man, who superintended his education and taught him music.  From his earliest childhood he has known me as his sister, and you cannot think how happy I was when I saw him growing so like you.  I have always considered him as a sure pledge of our final union.  I was ever thinking what would happen when we met, for I knew that he would have the same influence over you as he has over me.  I was sure you would marry me and make him legitimate.”