The Diva did not conceal from herself the greatness and arduous nature of the task before her.  She knew what a Marchese of mature age, of noble lineage, and of unblemished reputation, was; and she knew what she was.  But she did not appreciate those extra difficulties in the case, which arose from the special social position, and still more from the special character and temperament of the man,—­and these were the greatest difficulties of all!

On the whole, she was sanguine; and what was perhaps more to the purpose, old Quinto, when they talked the matter over together, and the general result of the morning interview had been reported to him, was sanguine too.

“Depend upon it, bambina mia,” he said, “it is the best game—­the real game.  Young fry will rise to the bait more readily; but they also wriggle off the hook much more easily.  It is the old fish who, when he has it once fixed in his gills, cannot get rid of it, struggle as he may.  You play your game well,—­neither relaxing, nor yet too much in a hurry, and I prophesy that I shall live to see you Marchesa di Castelmare.”

“And many a year afterwards, I hope, papa mio.  And you may depend on my teaching my husband to behave like a good son-in-law,” said Bianca, with a bright laugh.

“As for the nephew,” continued Quinto, “I can understand that it would be more agreeable to make your attack on him—­”

“I don’t know that at all, papa mio,” interrupted Bianca.  “You may laugh, if you will, and think that I am making a virtue of necessity—­and small blame to me if I were—­but the truth is, I do like the Marchese.  I like him better, as far as I can yet tell, than any man I ever knew.  Yes! you may make grimaces, and look as wicked as you please!  But it is true.  And, if you ever do see me Marchesa di Castelmare, you will see that I shall make him a very good, ay, and a very fond, wife.”

“Who could doubt it, Signora, that has the advantage of knowing you as well as I do?” said the old man, with a mocking bow.

“You may sneer as much as you like, Quinto; but you understand nothing about it.  The Marchese is a man any woman might love.  You call him an old man?  I tell you he is younger for a man than I am for a woman, God help me!  It isn’t only years that make people old.”

“That’s true, bambina mia, poveretta.  And I am sure I have nothing to say against it if you can fancy this Marchese a gay and handsome young cavalier.”

“Handsome he is, as far as that goes.  I swear he is the handsomest man I have seen here!  His nephew is good-looking enough, but he is not to be compared to his uncle either in face or person.”

“Well, whether you have succeeded or not in making the Marchese in love with you, cara mia, I begin to think that you have succeeded already in falling in love with him,” said Quinto, looking at her with raised eyebrows.