“I would rather not have written it,” replied Bianca, peevishly.  “It looked too much like putting the screw on—­I don’t like it.”

“Be reasonable, bambina mia, whatever you are.  How, in the name of all the Saints, do you imagine that you are to become Marchesa di Castelmare without putting the screw on—­and that pretty sharply too?  The man is as thoroughly caught as ever man was caught by a woman; and I tell you, therefore, that the game is in your own hands.  But you don’t suppose that he is burningly eager to solicit the honour of your alliance, che diamine?”

“Don’t, Quinto; don’t go on in that way.  I tell you I hate it all,” returned Bianca.

“Cars mia, you are in an irrational humour this morning.  Do you like the old game better?  It don’t pay, bambina mia, as you have found out; and, above all, it won’t last.  But I am sure you have reason to be satisfied with your success this season in any way.  I never heard you sing better in my life than you did last night; and, to say the truth, these people seemed to appreciate it.”

“I tell you, I hate it all—­all—­all!” said Bianca, as she swallowed the last drop of her coffee, and threw herself on the sofa in an attitude of languor and ennui.

“You are unreasonable, Bianca, you are not like yourself this morning; I don’t know what is come to you.  What in the world do you like, or what do you want?” said the old man, looking at her with a puzzled air.

“Did you see the Marchese Ludovico in a box on the right-hand side on the second tier with that Venetian girl, the artist?”

“The Marchese Ludovico was in the left-hand stage-box with his uncle.”

“Of course he was; but I mean between the acts.  I saw him from the wing by the side of that girl with her face the colour of mahogany, and her half-alive look.  I hate the look of her, and I know she hates me!”

Old Quinto looked at his pupil curiously for a minute before he replied to her.

“What do you mean, Bianca mia?” he said, at last; “and what, in the name of all the Saints, is the Venetian girl to you, or you to her?  Did you ever speak to her?  Why should she hate you?”

“I tell you, she does.  We women can always see those things without needing to be told them; and she knows, you may be very sure, that I hate her.”

“But why?  What is she to you?” reiterated the old man.

“You asked me, just now, what I wanted.  I want, if you must know, what I can never have—­what the Venetian girl last night was getting.”

“And what was she getting?  I don’t understand you, upon my soul!” said Quinto, staring at her, and utterly puzzled.

“What was she getting?  Love!—­that was what she was getting!  Ludovico loves her,” said Bianca, raising herself on her elbow, and speaking with fierce bitterness.

“Tu, tu, tu, tu, tu, tu!” whistled Quinto, between his pursed-up lips.  “But I thought, bambina mia, that you were going to love the Marchese Lamberto, and be a good wife to him, and all the rest of it, according to the rules and practices of the best-regulated domestic family circles; and I—­I was so rejoiced to hear it,” said the old reprobate, casting up his eyes and hands.