"Yes," said she, drawing up her long throat, and throwing back her head, an action habitual to her when displeased, "you did so. I did not understand it. We have been acquainted quite long enough for you to know I do not like interference."
"Pardon me, noble lady"—(Trenta spoke very meekly—to soothe her now was absolutely necessary)—"pardon me, for the sake of my good intentions."
"And pray what were your good intentions, cavaliere?" she asked, in a mocking tone, reseating herself. Her curiosity was rapidly getting the better of her resentment.
As she asked the question, the cavaliere left off nursing his leg with the nankeen trouser, rose, drew his chair closer to hers, then sat down again. The light from the single pair of candles was very dim, and scarcely extended beyond the card-table. Both their heads were therefore in shadow, but the marchesa's eyes gleamed nevertheless, as she waited for Trenta's explanation.
"Did you observe nothing this evening, my friend?" he asked—"nothing?" His manner was unusually excited.
"No," she answered, thoughtfully. She had been so exclusively occupied with the slights put upon herself that every thing else had escaped her. "I observed nothing except the impertinence of Count Marescotti, and the audacity—the—"
"Stop, marchesa," interrupted Trenta, holding up his hand. "We will talk of all that another time. If Count Marescotti and Baldassare have offended you, you can decline to receive them. You observed nothing, you say? I did." He leaned forward, and spoke with emphasis—"Marescotti is in love with Enrica."
The marchesa started violently and raised herself bolt upright.
"The Red count in love with a child like Enrica!"
"Only a child in your eyes, Signora Marchesa," rejoined Trenta, warmly. (He had warmed with his own convictions, his benevolent heart was deeply interested in Enrica. He had known her since she had first come to Casa Guinigi, a baby; from his soul he pitied her.) "In the eyes of the world Enrica is not only a woman, but promises to be a very lovely one. She is seventeen years old, and marriageable. Young ladies of her name and position must have fortunes, or they do not marry well. If they do, it is a chance—quite a chance. Under these circumstances, it would be cruel to deprive her of so suitable an alliance as Count Marescotti. Now, allow me to ask you, seriously, how would this marriage suit you?"