however, a certain hesitation in her manner which did not escape the
cavaliere. As she spoke, she looked hard at him, and touched his arm
to arouse his attention.

Trenta, who knew her so well, perfectly interpreted her meaning. His
ruddy cheeks flushed crimson; his kindly eyes kindled; he felt sure
that his advice would be accepted. She was yielding, but he must
be most cautious not to let his satisfaction appear. So strangely
contradictory was the marchesa that, although nothing could possibly
be more advantageous to her own schemes than this marriage, she might,
if indiscreetly pressed, veer round, and, in spite of her interest,
refuse to listen to another syllable on the subject.

All this kept the cavaliere silent. Receiving no answer, she looked
suspiciously at him, then grasped his arm tightly.

"And you, cavaliere--how long have you been so deeply interested in
Enrica? What is she to you? Her future can only signify to you as far
as it affects myself."

She waited for a reply. What was the cavaliere to answer? He loved
Enrica dearly, but he dared not say so, lest he should offend the
marchesa. He feared that if he spoke he should assuredly say too much.
Well as he knew her, the marchesa's egotism horrified him.

"Poor Enrica!" he muttered, involuntarily, half aloud.

The marchesa caught at the name.

"Enrica?--yes. From the time of my husband's death I have sacrificed