This provoking reply caused her father to jump up from his chair and spin round for his hat.  She rose to speed him forth.

‘It may seem to me!’ he kept muttering.  ’It may seem to me that when a daughter gets married—­addio! she is nothing but her husband.’

‘Ay! ay! if it might be so!’ the signora wailed out.

The count hated tears, considering them a clog to all useful machinery.  He was departing, when through the open window a noise of scuffling in the street below arrested him.

‘Has it commenced?’ he said, starting.

‘What?’ asked the signora, coolly; and made him pause.

‘But-but-but!’ he answered, and had the grace to spare her ears.  The thought in him was:  ’But that I had some faith in my wife, and don’t admire the devil sufficiently, I would accuse him point-blank, for, by Bacchus! you are as clever as he.’

It is a point in the education of parents that they should learn to apprehend humbly the compliment of being outwitted by their own offspring.

Count Serabiglione leaned out of the window and saw that his horses were safe and the coachman handy.  There were two separate engagements going on between angry twisting couples.

‘Is there a habitable town in Italy?’ the count exclaimed frenziedly.  First he called to his coachman to drive away, next to wait as if nailed to the spot.  He cursed the revolutionary spirit as the mother of vices.  While he was gazing at the fray, the door behind him opened, as he knew by the rush of cool air which struck his temples.  He fancied that his daughter was hurrying off in obedience to a signal, and turned upon her just as Laura was motioning to a female figure in the doorway to retire.

‘Who is this?’ said the count.

A veil was over the strange lady’s head.  She was excited, and breathed quickly.  The count brought forward a chair to her, and put on his best court manner.  Laura caressed her, whispering, ere she replied:  ’The Signorina Vittoria Romana!—­Biancolla!—­Benarriva!’ and numerous other names of inventive endearment.  But the count was too sharp to be thrown off the scent.  ‘Aha!’ he said, ’do I see her one evening before the term appointed?’ and bowed profoundly.  ‘The Signorina Vittoria!’

She threw up her veil.

‘Success is certain,’ he remarked and applauded, holding one hand as a snuff-box for the fingers of the other to tap on.

‘Signor Conte, you—­must not praise me before you have heard me.’

‘To have seen you!’

‘The voice has a wider dominion, Signor Conte.’

’The fame of the signorina’s beauty will soon be far wider.  Was Venus a cantatrice?’

She blushed, being unable to continue this sort of Mayfly-shooting dialogue, but her first charming readiness had affected the proficient social gentleman very pleasantly, and with fascinated eyes he hummed and buzzed about her like a moth at a lamp.  Suddenly his head dived:  ‘Nothing, nothing, signorina,’ he said, brushing delicately at her dress; ‘I thought it might be paint.’  He smiled to reassure her, and then he dived again, murmuring:  ’It must be something sticking to the dress.  Pardon me.’  With that he went to the bell.  ’I will ring up my daughter’s maid.  Or Laura—­where is Laura?’