Hitherto no direct proposals of any kind had been made to her by the Marchese.  He was not good at any such work.  Any one of those distinguished sons of paternal governments, who had constituted the material of Bianca’s experiences of that division of mankind, would have long since said what he wanted, and have very clearly indicated the terms on which he was willing to become the fortunate possessor of the coveted article.  And Bianca would have perfectly well known how, under the present circumstances, to answer any such proposals, as she had known under the other circumstances of past days.  But the Marchese made no proposals.  What he wished, indeed, was abundantly clear to her.  But his mode of making it clear rendered the task of dealing with him a somewhat difficult one.

Partially, Bianca understood the nature of the case.  She was partly aware why the Marchese was slow to say that which so many, whom she had known, had made so little difficulty of saying.  She understood that, whatever his years might be, he was a novice at that business.  She comprehended that he was, in many respects, a younger man than many a coulisse-frequenting youth whom she had known.  But she was far from conceiving any true notion of the Marchese’s state of mind on the subject.  She was very far from imagining that he looked with disgust and with terror at the position which she conceived him to be but too ready to accept to-morrow, if only he knew how to ask for it, or if it could be offered to him without his asking.  She little guessed that his feeling towards her oscillated between the maddest desire and the fiercest hatred; that reveries, filled with pictured imaginings and fevered recollections of her beauty, alternated with the most violent efforts to cleanse his mind and imagination of the thought of her.

She understood nothing of all this, and it was impossible that she should understand it.  In truth, she was innocent of any conduct which could have justified such sentiments.  Why should he hate her?  It was true that she sought to attract him,—­true that she was scheming to lead him to a point at which he might find it so impossible to give her up, that, being well convinced that he could have her on no other terms, he might offer her marriage.  But was there anything worse in that than men had been treated “since summer first was leafy?” How many men had married women in her position—­ women less capable of doing credit to the position to which they were raised than she was?  How many men had been treated in such matters very much worse than she had any thought of treating him?  She fully proposed to make him a good and true wife, and fully thought that she should do so.  She was not deceiving him in any way.  She made the best of her past life—­naturally; but was it to be for a moment supposed that such a man as the Marchese could, or did, imagine that she, Bianca Lalli, whose career, for the last eight years, was known to all Italy, was in the position of a young contessa just taken from her convent?