“He loves me—he is coming back again. He does not mind about my singing—Ah, I cannot tell you,” and the bright face drooped with sudden bashfulness.
“Oh!” cried Rosa, passionately, as she pulled off her hat and fanned herself with it; “what a foolish world this is! What has he said? what has he done?” she repeated, almost fiercely.
“He asked me to marry him,” said Violante, with a sort of dignity.
“Oh, dear! he is a very foolish young man. What is to come of it?—what can come of it? Nothing but trouble.”
Violante gazed at her, mute and frightened; then her face brightened with an incredulous smile.
“Oh, if you had never seen him!”
“Rosa!” cried Violante, springing to her feet, “rather than that, I would be miserable for ever—rather than that, I would die.”
“Because you are as silly as the rest! Oh, you unlucky child! don’t you see that it is impossible? Either he will go back to his own people and they will talk him out of it, or he will marry you in spite of them. But no, he shall never do that!”
“But he said it would be right,” said Violante; then, as Rosa laughed bitterly, she went on, pleadingly: “Oh, Rosa mia, it is you who are silly. He will make it right. Indeed, I am happy; but I cannot bear to see you cry. I will act, I shall not care now, and you must keep father from being vexed.” There was much in Violante’s speech of the unconscious selfishness of one to whom the part of comforter was a strange reversion of ordinary life; but her caresses were very sweet to Rosa, who, recovering herself with an effort, said:
“Well, Violante, you can’t expect me to believe in him as you do! I never thought it would come to this!”