The color deepened in her cheeks and the pencil strokes came more
falteringly, but she answered nothing.

"Nay, then!" he exclaimed, more brusquely than his wont, as he stretched
out his hand and arrested her movement. "What I have to say to thee
importeth much."

She flushed and paled with the struggle of the moment, then a beautiful
calm came over her face; she laid down her pencil and, quietly dropping
her hands in her lap, she turned to him with a smile that might have
disarmed an angrier man--it was full of tenderness, though it was
shadowed by pain.

It relaxed his sternness, and, after a moment's hesitation, he came
around the table and sat down beside her.

"To-night is the fête at Ca' Giustiniani, for the young noble of their
house."

He waited for her to speak, but she did not tremble now, though he was
searching her face.

"Yes, father, I know."

"And, Marina--I do not understand--and it is a grief to me----"

She nestled to him closely and tried to slip one of her slender hands
between his, which were tightly strained together in a knotted clasp, as
if he would make them the outlet for some unbearable emotion.