page was examining with inquisitive eyes, and by a window on the right
stood a very handsome harp that Guidobaldo had bought his niece in
Venice.

In that choice apartment of hers the Duke found Valentina surrounded by
her ladies, Peppe the fool, a couple of pages, and a half-dozen gentlemen
of her uncle's court. One of these--that same Gonzaga who had escorted
her from the Convent of Santa Sofia--most splendidly arrayed in white
taby, his vest and doublet rich with gold, sat upon a low stool, idly
fingering the lute in his lap, from which Gian Maria inferred that his
had been the voice that had reached him in the ante-chamber.

At the Duke's advent they all rose saving Valentina and received him with
a ceremony that somewhat chilled his ardour. He advanced; then halted
clumsily, and in a clumsy manner framed a request that he might speak
with her alone. In a tired, long-suffering way she dismissed that court
of hers, and Gian Maria stood waiting until the last of them had passed
out through the tall windows that abutted on to a delightful terrace,
where, in the midst of a green square, a marble fountain flashed and
glimmered in the sunlight.

"Lady," he said, when they were at last alone, "I have news from Babbiano
that demands my instant return." And he approached her by another step.

In truth he was a dull-witted fellow or else too blinded by fatuity to
see and interpret aright the sudden sparkle in her eye, the sudden,
unmistakable expression of relief that spread itself upon her face.

"My lord," she answered, in a low, collected voice, "we shall grieve at
your departure."