“Your father, the duke, shall hear of it,” cried the old lady.
“I will tell him myself,” said Isabella, “and of your interpretation of it.”
“It is a natural one, is it not?” said madam, but with a falling face.
“To the Marquise de Gonzalès,” said Isabella. “Shall we return to the carriage, madam?”
Tiretta, with a fine red on his cheek, came forward.
“I, also,” he said, “desire to answer for myself. The Count of Falckenstein——”
“Eh!” cried the marquise, with a little whisk and start.
“I said the Count of Falckenstein, madam, happening to cross yonder ford a few minutes ago on his road to Milan, encountered the vision of a nymph exploring these waters knee-deep in quest of lilies, and sent me with a compliment to greet the subject of so charming a picture. That, upon my honour, constitutes my share in this ‘assignation.’”
The old dame’s face, while Tiretta spoke, was a study. Perplexity struggled there with amazement and relief. She laughed, as he finished, on a little high note of understanding and indulgence.
“And it was very natural of his Excellency,” she said. “I, for one, decline to blame him for it. When rank forgets itself in such naughty vagaries as miss’s here, it must look to be accepted by strangers at its own valuation. Luckily, as you will please to inform the count, the like of this is with her Excellency a rare ebullition. She can do justice to her training, as you have heard; and I, though made the victim of the principles I have inculcated, can rejoice, at least, in such vindication of my teaching.”