"Not that I remember."

Beatrice sighed heavily, and let fall her veil. Some foot-passengers now
came up the lane; and seeing two ladies, of mien so remarkable, turned
round, and gazed curiously.

"We cannot talk here," said Beatrice, impatiently; "and I have so much to
say, so much to know. Trust me yet more; it is for yourself I speak. My
carriage waits yonder. Come home with me,--I will not detain you an
hour; and I will bring you back."

This proposition startled Violante. She retreated towards the gate with
a gesture of dissent. Beatrice laid her hand on the girl's arm, and
again lifting her veil, gazed at her with a look half of scorn, half of
admiration.

"I, too, would once have recoiled from one step beyond the formal line by
which the world divides liberty from woman. Now see how bold I am.
Child, child, do not trifle with your destiny. You may never again have
the same occasion offered to you. It is not only to meet you that I am
here; I must know something of you,--something of your heart. Why
shrink? Is not the heart pure?"

Violante made no answer; but her smile, so sweet and so lofty, humbled
the questioner it rebuked.

"I may restore to Italy your father," said Beatrice, with an altered
voice. "Come!"