Trenta laughed quietly to himself, then stroked his well-shaved chin.

"Signorina," said the count, at length breaking silence, "permit me to
offer my excuses for not having sooner perceived you. Will you forgive
me?"

"Mio Dio!" muttered the marchesa to herself, "he will turn the child's
head with his fine phrases."

"I have nothing to forgive, count," answered Enrica simply. She spoke
low. Her voice matched the expression of her face; there was a natural
tone of plaintiveness in it.

"When I last saw you," continued the count, standing as if spellbound
before her, "you were only a child. Now," and his kindling eyes
riveted themselves upon her, "you are a woman. Like the magic rose
that was the guerdon of the Troubadours, you have passed in an hour
from leaf to bud, from bud to fairest flower. You were, of course, at
the Orsetti ball last night?" He asked this question, trying to rouse
himself. "What ball in Lucca would be complete without you?"

"I was not there," answered Enrica, blushing deeply and glancing
timidly at the marchesa, who, with a scowl on her face, was fanning
herself violently.

"Not there!" ejaculated Marescotti, with wonder.--"Why, marchesa, is
it not barbarous to shut up your beautiful niece? Is it because you
deem her too precious to be gazed upon? If so, you are right."