"And I," said Nera, softly, directing a broadside upon him from her brilliant eyes—"allow me to congratulate you also."
"Thank you," murmured Nobili, scarcely able to form the words.
"Excuse me," the marchesa said. She courtesied to Nobili and left the room.
Nobili and Nera were now alone. Nobili watched her under his eyelids. Yes, she was splendid. A luxuriant form, a skin mellow and ruddy as a ripe peach, and such eyes!
Nera was silent. She guessed his thoughts. She knew men so well. Men had been her special study. Nera was only twenty-four, but she was clever, and would have excelled in any thing she pleased. To draw men to her, as the magnet draws the needle, was the passion of her life; whether she cared for them or not, to draw them. Not to succeed argued a want of skill. That maddened her. She was keen and hot upon the scent, knocking over her man as a sportsman does his bird, full in the breast. Her aim was marriage. Count Nobili would have suited her exactly. She had felt for him a warmth that rarely quickened her pulses. Nobili had evaded her. But revenge is sweet. Now his hour is come.
"Count Nobili"—Nera's tempting looks spoke more than words—"come and sit down by me." She signed to him to place himself upon the sofa.
Nobili rose as she bade him. He came upon his fate without a word. Seated so near to Nera, he gazed into her starry eyes, and felt it did him good.
"You look ill," Nera said, tuning her voice to a tone of tender pity; "you have grown older too since I last saw you. Is it love, or grief, or jealousy, or what?"
Nobili heaved a deep sigh. His hand, which rested near hers, slipped forward, and touched her fingers. Nera withdrew them to smooth the braids of her glossy hair. While she did so she scanned Nobili closely. "You are not a triumphant lover, certainly. What is the matter?"
"You are very good to care," answered Nobili, sighing again, gazing into her face; "once I thought that my fate did touch you."