And she would shake her gray head and feel for the beads of her rosary, and mutter many an Ave for the repose of my soul.  Much as I wished it, I could never get her to talk about her mistress—­it was the one subject on which she was invariably silent.  On one occasion when I spoke with apparent enthusiasm of the beauty and accomplishments of the young countess, she glanced at me with sudden and earnest scrutiny—­sighed—­but said nothing.  I was glad to see how thoroughly devoted she was to Stella, and the child returned her affection with interest—­though as the November days came on apaces my little one looked far from strong.  She paled and grew thin, her eyes looked preternaturally large and solemn, and she was very easily wearied.  I called Assunta’s attention to these signs of ill-health; she replied that she had spoken to the countess, but that “madam” had taken no notice of the child’s weakly condition.  Afterward I mentioned the matter myself to Nina, who merely smiled gratefully up in my face and answered: 

“Really, my dear conte, you are too good!  There is nothing the matter with Stella, her health is excellent; she eats too many bonbons, perhaps, and is growing rather fast, that is all.  How kind you are to think of her!  But, I assure you, she is quite well.”

I did not feel so sure of this, yet I was obliged to conceal my anxiety, as overmuch concern about the child would not have been in keeping with my assumed character.

It was a little past the middle of November, when a circumstance occurred that gave impetus to my plans, and hurried them to full fruition.  The days were growing chilly and sad even in Naples—­ yachting excursions were over, and I was beginning to organize a few dinners and balls for the approaching winter season, when one afternoon Ferrari entered my room unannounced and threw himself into the nearest chair with an impatient exclamation, and a vexed expression of countenance.

“What is the matter?” I asked, carelessly, as I caught a furtive glance of his eyes.  “Anything financial?  Pray draw upon me!  I will be a most accommodating banker!”

He smiled uneasily though gratefully.

“Thanks, conte—­but it is nothing of that sort—­it is—­gran Dio! what an unlucky wretch I am!”

“I hope,” and here I put on an expression of the deepest anxiety, “I hope the pretty contessa has not played you false? she has refused to marry you?”

He laughed with a disdainful triumph in his laughter.

“Oh, as far as that goes there is no danger!  She dares not play me false.”

“Dares not!  That is rather a strong expression, my friend!” And I stroked my beard and looked at him steadily.  He himself seemed to think he had spoken too openly and hastily—­for he reddened as he said with a little embarrassment: 

“Well, I did not mean that exactly—­of course she is perfectly free to do as she likes—­but she cannot, I think, refuse me after showing me so much encouragement.”