“Yes. When you're not speaking, your brows grow stern and your lips compressed. Your features have not that dear repose, as Giorgevo used to call it. Poor fellow! how much in love he was, and you 've never asked for him!”
“I never thought of him!” said she, with a smile.
“Nor of Florian, Kate!”
“Nor even of him.”
“And yet that poor fellow was really in love,—nay, don't laugh, Kate, I know it. He gave up his career, everything he had in life,—he was a Secretary of Legation, with good prospects,—all to win your favor, becoming a 'Carbonaro,' or a 'Montagnard,' or something or other that swears to annihilate all kings and extirpate monarchy.”
“And after that?” asked Kate, with more of interest.
“After that, ma chère, they sent him to the galleys; I forget exactly where, but I think it was in Sicily. And then there was that Hungarian Count Nemescz, that wanted to kill somebody who picked up your bouquet out of the Grand Canal at Venice.”
“And whom, strangely enough, I met and made acquaintance with in Ireland. His name is Massingbred.”