“Come with us, then, Roland,” cried they all, “and our journey will be delightful.”
“But why do you start so hurriedly? What is there to draw you from this at the very brightest season of the year?”
“There is rather that which draws us to Venice,” said Sidney, coloring slightly? “but this is our secret, and you shall not hear it till we are on our way.”
Roland's curiosity was not exacting; he asked no more: nor was it till they had proceeded some days on their journey that Sidney confided to him the sudden cause of their journey, which he did in the few words.—
“La Ninetta is at Venice,—she is at the 'Fenice.'”
“But who is La Ninetta? You forgot that you are speaking to one who lives out of the world.”
“Not know La Ninetta!” exclaimed he; “never have seen her?”
“Never even heard of her.”
To the pause which the shock of the first astonishment imposed there now succeeded a burst of enthusiastic description, in which the three youths vied with each other who should be most eloquent in praise. Her beauty, her gracefulness, the witching fascination of her movements, the enchanting captivation of her smile, were themes they never wearied of. Nor was it till he had suffered the enthusiasm to take its course that they would listen to his calm question,—
“Is she an actress?”