Ludovico di Castelmare did not see his uncle that evening.  He returned to the Palazzo, thoughtful enough, direct from the house in the Strada di Santa Eufemia, and there learned that the Impresario had been with the Marchese; that he had brought the good news of his success in having engaged “La Lalli” to sing at Ravenna during the coming Carnival; and that he, Ludovico, had been sent for by his uncle from the Circolo.  What for, the servant could not tell him.  He could only say that the Marchese had seemed much put out at the Signor Marchese Ludovico’s absence, and that he had shortly afterwards gone out to pass the remainder of the evening at the palace of the Cardinal Legate.

Ludovico was by no means so anxious to see his uncle as to wait to do so till he should return at night.  He betook himself to his own quartierino, locked the door, and sat down to think.

He had said no more than the truth to Paolina when he professed that he had never spoken a word with the intention of deceiving her.  Nor had he been otherwise than entirely sincere in all that he had just been saying to her.  Nevertheless he felt, somewhat more strongly and clearly, perhaps, than while he had been looking into Paolina’s eyes, that he had undertaken rather a tremendous task in declaring that he would break off the projected marriage with the Lady Violante, the great-niece of the Cardinal,—­a match which both families considered to be definitively arranged, and which was expected and looked forward to by all Ravenna, and that for the purpose and with the view of making so terrible a mesalliance as that he contemplated.  The Marchese Ludovico felt all the weight of the inheritance of a great name and a still greater social position, which devolved upon him from his uncle.  It was bad enough to contemplate the effect which would be produced, as regarded himself, by the step he contemplated.  But it was perfectly terrible to think of the effect it would produce on the Marchese Lamberto.  Ludovico was proud, in his more easy-going way, of the position he occupied as his uncle’s nephew in the society of the city; but it was not to him the breath of his nostrils as it was to his uncle.

He felt, as a weak man is apt to feel in similar positions of difficulty, that the best and quickest, and, above all, the easiest, way out of all embarrassment would be to run away from it—­to quit Ravenna, and give it up—­it, and all its inhabitants for ever.  He could do this.  He felt that Paolina would be worth such a sacrifice.  But how to accomplish such a step while his uncle lived?

As it was all he could do was to procrastinate, he thought of the old Italian proverb, “Gain time, and you will pull through,” and he determined to profit by the wisdom of it.  Even procrastination would not be without difficulty.  But something might be done in that way,- -some time might be gained.  And then there was always that never-failing resource and consolation of those who, in the words of Horace, limit their ambition to adapting themselves to circumstances instead of adapting circumstances to them, something might turn up; though, for the present, it was difficult to see what that something could possibly be, unless it were the death of his uncle, a perfectly robust and healthy man in the fiftieth year of his life.