For the second time the marchesa did not finish the sentence.
"And do you think he loves you?"
As she asked this question she seated herself, and contemplated Enrica with a cynical smile.
"Yes, he loves me. It is you who do not know him!" exclaimed Enrica. "He is so good, so generous, so true; there is no one in the world like him."
How pure Enrica looked, pleading for her lover!—her face thrown out in sharp profile against the dark wall; her short upper lip raised by her eager speech; the dazzling fairness of her complexion; and her soft hair hanging loose about her head and neck.
"I think I do—I think I know him better than you do," the marchesa answered, somewhat absently.
She was struck by Enrica's exceeding beauty, which seemed within the last few days to have suddenly developed and matured.
"The young man appreciates you, too, I do not doubt. I am told he is a lover of beauty."
This was added with a sneer. Enrica grew crimson.
"Well, well," the marchesa went on to say, "it is too late now—the thing is done. But remember I have warned you. You chose Count Nobili, not I. Enrica, I have done my duty to you and to my own name. Now go and tell the cavaliere I want him."