“The count!” I cried; and he told me that Count Giraldi had called for me that afternoon and had entertained himself greatly with Virginia.

I sent Scipione away.  It was necessary to know more of this.  The moment he was out of the room I asked her what had brought about this masquerade of hers.  She said timidly that Scipione had a sister who was woman to a great lady.  This person had several times been in to see her brother, and this dress was of her providing.  She said that they had teased her about her appearance at Prato, where Scipione’s sister had seen her, it appears, and had dared to prove to them that she was indeed that handsome lady with whom I had been observed.  She hoped I should not take it amiss, or be angry with “my servant,” by which she meant herself.  I assured her that I was not at all angry—­which was true, and then begged her to tell me what the count had wanted.  She said he had called to leave me a message—­an invitation to dine, I think—­and that Scipione, maliciously or ingenuously, had shown him into the room where she was queening it in her borrowed finery.

I guessed there was more.  “What had his Excellency to say on your account, my child?” I asked her.

“He thought at first that I was what I seemed, and was most gallant,” she replied, to my consternation.  “I told him, however, that he was very much mistaken, that I was a poor girl and your servant, playing as I should not.  This tickled his Excellency—­or so it appeared.”

“And he said—­what, Virginia?” I was careful to hide from her my discomfort over this foolish business.

Virginia, with what I am sure was perfect innocence of any evil, said, “He was most kind.  He praised my looks, and vowed that you were happily served.”

“And so I am,” I said rather ruefully.  “He was right.  What next?”

“Next, sir,” said this strange girl, “he praised my figure, which he thought was mightily becoming this gown.”

“Well, well, and he was right,” I admitted.  “But did he say nothing more?”

Virginia would not look at me, but I caught the words, “He said that he envied you the arrangements of your household.”

“Well?” I asked her.

“And he said that he was sure I was as good as I was good-looking, and gave your honour every satisfaction.  And then he gave me a gold piece and a salutation and was going away, when—–­”

“Well, well?  Let me have the whole story.”

“I shall vex you—­but not more than I was vexed, I assure you.  No harm had been done—­for you don’t suppose that I wanted his money, serving your honour.  But just as he was going out what must that daughter of mischief—­Scipione’s sister—­do but blurt out that she had seen me with your honour not near so well dressed at the fair at Prato.  The count started and looked very much intrigued.  He asked me a score of questions—­artfully, you may be sure, as if to idle away the time.  But I told him nothing at all, and he presently was tired of working a dry pump.  He took his leave, and that Sataness went with him.  God knows what she knows!  If I come within distance of her I shall drag her tongue out of her throat, I promise you.”