dreadful question rose up in her mind, "What would Enrica have to
inherit?"

That very day she had received a most insolent letter from a creditor.
Under the influence of the painful thoughts, she turned her head aside
and said nothing. One of her hands was raised over her eyes to shade
them from the candles; the other rested on her dark dress.

If a marriage were really in question, what could be more serious?
Was not Enrica's marriage to raise up heirs to the Guinigi--heirs to
inherit the palace and the heirlooms? If--the marchesa banished the
thought, but it would return, and haunt her like a spectre--if not the
palace, then at least the name--the historic name, revered throughout
Italy? Nothing could deprive Enrica of the name--that name was in
itself a dower. That Enrica should possess both name and palace, with
a husband of her--the marchesa's--own choosing, had been her dream,
but it had been a far-off dream--a dream to be realized in the course
of years.

Taken thus aback, the proposal made by Trenta appeared to her hurried
and premature--totally wanting in the dignified and well-considered
action that should mark the conduct of the great. Besides, if an
immediate marriage were arranged between Count Marescotti and Enrica,
only a part of her plan could be realized. Enrica was, indeed,
now almost portionless; there would be no time to pile up those
gold-pieces, or to swell those rustling sheaves of notes that she
had--in imagination--accumulated.

"Portionless!" the marchesa repeated to herself, half aloud. "What a
humiliation!--my own niece!"