“Really, Signora, I don’t know how to apologize sufficiently for thus breaking in upon you,” said Ludovico, coming forward to meet her; “but I could not refrain from calling to say one word of congratulation.  Can you forgive me?”

“I hardly know whether I can,” said Bianca, half pouting and half laughing, and looking wholly beautiful; “to be seen when they are not fit to be seen is an offence which we others, women, find it difficult to forgive, you know.”

“But that is an offence which, in the nature of things, cannot be committed against the Signora Bianca Lalli,” retorted Ludovico, with a low bow, half earnest and half in fun, and a look of admiration that was entirely sincere.  “But the fact is,” he continued, “that I really was impatient to be the first to make you my compliments on last night’s immense success.  To tell you that I never heard a part sung as you sang that of Amina last night would, perhaps, appear to you to be saying little.  But I do assure you the whole city is saying that there never was anything like it.  It was superb!  Perfect!  Perhaps the praise of all Ravenna is not worth very much to one who has had that of all Italy.  But, at all events, my uncle is a competent judge—­and he is not an easy one.  And I do assure you he was moved as I never saw him moved by music before.”

“He is very good—­too kind to me.  He was good enough to see me to my carriage at the theatre last night; and he said some word that makes me think he purposes doing me the honour of coming here to give me the advantage of his criticism on last night’s performance,” said Bianca, who was anxious to let her visitor understand the desirability of avoiding being caught there by his uncle.

“Yes, I am sure he would not fail to bring his tribute of admiration this morning,” returned Ludovico, carelessly; “but he will not be here yet awhile.  He is an early man in general, lo zio; but he has not been well latterly.  You must have seen yourself, Signorina, how changed he is since you have known him.  I really begin to be uneasy about him.  You must surely have observed how ill he is looking.”

“I am so grieved to hear you say so.  Of course any change must be far more evident to those who have known him all his life.  But I should have said that I had rarely or never seen so remarkably young-looking a man for his years.  The Marchese happened to tell me once that he is fifty or not far from it.  It seemed to me impossible to believe it,” said Bianca, who understood perfectly well how and why it came to pass that the Marchese should latterly be a changed man.

“Three months ago he might have well passed for five-and-thirty; but, per Bacco, he looks his years now every day of them—­and more, too, il povero zio.”

“Nay, Signor Ludovico, I think your regard for your uncle makes you think him worse than he is.  I thought he was looking very well at the theatre last night,” replied Bianca, knowing nothing more to the purpose to say.