“Ah, my hand! you hurt my hand!” she said.  “You don’t know how you squeezed it, you are so strong.  You don’t know the quantity of force you put out!”

“Pardon—­a thousand pardons, Signora!  I am such a clumsy clown!  Have I really hurt you, Bianca?”

“Not to the death, Signor,” she said, with a charming smile, and holding up to him the injured member, shaking it as she let it dangle from the slender wrist.  “But see! it is really all blushing red from the ardour of your hand’s embrace!”

“Poor little hand!—­indeed, it is!” said the Marchese, taking it gently and tenderly between both of his; then, suddenly throwing himself on his knees by the side of the sofa, while he still held it, he said, “And how can the great cruel hand that did the harm make fit amends?”

“Ah, Signor Marchese, it might find the way to do that, if it were so disposed.  It would not be so far to seek.  But you are seeking in the wrong direction,” she continued, drawing herself back from him on the sofa, as he, leaning forward against it, had brought himself so near to her, that the back of the hand in which he held hers touched her waist.  “You are seeking amiss.  It is not so that any remedy can be found; and—­pray rise, Signor, and take your usual chair.  This must not be,—­I am sure you would not willingly give me pain, Marchese, and you are paining me.  Pray leave the sofa.”

She had drawn herself back away from him as far as the breadth of the sofa would allow, yet without withdrawing her hand from him; and she looked at him certainly more in sorrow than in anger,—­looked into his face earnestly with grave, sad eyes, and heaved a long sigh as he, after pressing the hurt hand to his lips, rose from his knees and took the chair she had pointed to.

“Pain you, Bianca?” he said, as he sat down; “why should I pain you?  You do me no more than justice when you say that I would not do so willingly; but have you thought how much pain you inflict on me by thus keeping me at a distance from you?  I think you must know that.  Is there aught to offend you in anything that I have done, or said, or hoped, or wished?”

“I think, Signor Marchese,” she said, dropping her large eyes beneath their long fringes, and looking adorably lovely as she did so, “I am afraid that what you have wished is—­what some might deem offensive to a lady.”

And as she spoke she looked out furtively from behind her eyelashes.

“Bianca, is that reasonable?” he said, in a tone of remonstrance.  “Diamine, let us talk common sense; we are not children.  Have you always found such wishes as mine offensive in others?”

“Yes, always—­always offensive, always cruel,” she said, with extreme energy; “but—­can you not understand, Signor Marchese,—­can you not conceive that what from one man passes and makes no mark, and leaves no sting, may from another—­What cared I what all the empty-headed young fops who came in my way could say or do; they were nothing to me.  But—­I did not expect pain from the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare.  I—­I thought—­I hoped—­I—­I flattered myself—­fool, idiot fool that I have been!” she exclaimed, bursting into violent sobs, and hiding her face with her hands.