“Of course you will see me there,” replied Sylvie, a little impatiently, “Am I not one of Angela’s closest friends?”

“True!  And for the sake of la mia dolcezza, you will also be a friend to me?”

“‘la mia dolcezza’”, repeated Sylvie, “Is that what you call her?”

“Yes—­but I fear it is not original!” said Varillo smiling, “One Ariosto called his lady thus.”

“Yes?” and Sylvie’s eyes darkened and grew humid with a sudden tenderness of thought, “It is a pretty phrase!”

“It should be used to you always, by every man who has my present privilege!” said Varillo, gallantly, kissing her hand once more, “You will be my friend?”

Sylvie disengaged her hand from his.

“You must not depend upon me, Signor,” she said with sudden coldness, “To be perfectly frank with you I am not sure that I like you.  You are very charming and very clever—­but I doubt your sincerity.”

“Ah, che sono infelice!” murmured varillo softly, “you are right, bellissima madama!  I am not myself with many people—­but with you—­ you are one of the few who understand me . . .  I am the very soul of candour!”

He fixed his eyes full upon her with an open and straight regard, adding, “Can you doubt me?” in a touching tone of wounded feeling.

The Comtesse laughed, and her face flushed.

“Well, I do not know!” she said, with a light gesture of her hands as though she threw something unpleasant away from her, “I shall fudge of you by the happiness—­or sorrow—­of Angela!”

A slight frown contracted his brows—­but it passed quickly, and the candid smile illumined his mobile face once more.

“Ebben!  Buona notte, bela capricciosa!” and bowing low he turned towards the door, “Thank you a thousand times for a very happy evening!  Even when you are unkind to me you are still charming!  Addio!”

She murmured an “addio” in response, and when he had gone, and the echo of his footfall down the great marble stairs had completely died away, she went out once more to the balcony and leaned among the sculptured angels, a dainty, slender, white figure, with her soft flower-like face turned up to the solemn sky, where the large moon marched like an Amazon through space, attended by her legions and battalions of stars.  So slight, so fragile and sweet a woman!—­ with a precious world of love pent up in her heart . . . yet alone—­ quite alone on this night of splendid luminousness and majestic suggestions of infinity,—­an infinity so monstrous and solitary to the one delicate creature, whose whole soul craved for a perfect love.  Alas, for this “perfect love,” of which all the dearest women dream!  Where shall they find it?—­and how shall they win it?  Too often it comes when they may not have it; the cup of nectar is offered to lips that are forbidden to drink of it, because the world’s convention stands between and turns the honey to gall.  One of the many vague problems of a future life, offered for our consideration, is the one concerning the righteous satisfaction of love.  Will not those who have been bound fast as prisoners in the bonds of matrimony without love, find those whose spirits are naturally one with theirs, but whom they have somehow missed in this life?  For Byron’s fine lines are eternally true,—­