'What! not Bona either?' she said. 'Be warned by me, rather. Yours is no wit for this encounter. Love is a coil, dear chuck; no battering-ram. Not for me nor any? Maybe; but the game is in the strife. Go, find your saint: I know nothing of him.'
'No, nor shall. Be warned, I say.'
'Well, you have said it, and more than once.'
He hesitated, ground his teeth, clapped his hands together, and turning, left her.
Glooming and mumbling, he went back to the palace. A page met him with the message that the Duchess of Milan desired his attendance. He frowned, and went, as directed, to her private closet. He found Bona alone, busy, or affecting to be busy, over a strip of embroidery. She greeted him chilly; but it was evident that nervousness rather than hauteur kept her seated. He saluted her coldly and silently, awaiting her pleasure. She glanced once or twice at the closed portière; then braced herself to the ordeal with a rather quivering smile.
'This is a sad coil, Messer Carlo.'
He answered gruffly:—
'If I understand your Grace.'
She put the quibble by.
'We, you and I, are in a manner his guardians—accountable to the Duke.'