And again his eyes, full of ardent admiration, were bent on Enrica.

Enrica dropped her head to hide her confusion, and resumed her
knitting.

It was a golden sunset. The sun was sinking behind the delicate
arcades of the Moorish garden, and spreading broad patches of rosy
light upon the marble. The shrubs, with their bright flowers, were set
against a tawny orange sky. The air was full of light--the last gleams
of parting day. The splash of the fountain upon the lion's heads was
heard in the silence, the heavy perfume of the magnolia-flowers stole
in wafts through the sculptured casements, creeping upward in the soft
evening air.

Still, motionless before Enrica, Marescotti was rapidly falling into a
poetic rapture. The marchesa broke the awkward silence.

"Enrica is a child," she said, dryly. "She knows nothing about balls.
She has never been to one. Pray do not put such ideas into her head,
count," she added, looking at him angrily.

"But, marchesa, your niece is no child--she is a lovely woman,"
insisted the count, his eyes still riveted upon her. The marchesa did
not consider it necessary to answer him.

Meanwhile the cavaliere, who had returned to his seat near her, had
watched the moment when no one was looking that way, had given her a
significant glance, and placed his finger warningly upon his lip.

Not understanding what he meant by this action, the marchesa was at