'There, Italia mia! You can tell your father that is what my father meant to give him,—and the other two hundred francs are for interest. Tell him he has not lost by waiting.'
'Signor Marchese!'
It was pretty to see how the colour flushed all over her face and throat, to the very border of her scarlet handkerchief. 'My father will be so happy,—and so proud,' she said shyly. She did not dare to touch the little portfolio until he tossed it gaily into her apron, and then she turned it over with a childish pleasure in the bright colours and gilt thread of the embroidery; it impressed her more than any amount of money.
'I wonder what father will do with it? He will not know what to do. We were never rich before,' she said at last, looking up at the young man who stood before her with grateful shining eyes.
Gasparo was watching her intently. His own face flushed and softened as their glances met. He tossed back his head with an air of bright decision.
'Should you like more money,—a great deal of money, which would be all yours to spend as you please. Should you like to be rich, Italia mia?'
'Oh no,' said the girl quickly. And then she laughed. 'I should not know what to do. My father always says it is not enough to have money, one must have brains to spend it. And I should be miserable. I should be like one of those ragged little sparrows over there if you put it in a fine gold cage. I should always be wanting to get back to the old ways. I think even the smallest bird must enjoy its wings.
'But suppose some one was with you in the cage? Some one who was very good to you and looked after you? Do you think you would not like it better then?' he asked in the gentlest voice. And then, as she did not answer immediately: 'Listen, my Italia. I have heard some foolish story of your betrothal to that young De Rossi,—to Dino, but it is not true; is it? You are not promessa; your father told me so only the other day.'
He moved a little nearer, so that his handsome glowing face was very close to hers. He was very much in earnest now; inclination and the sense of opposition were firing the old rebellious Balbi blood; with that air of tender deference tempering the bright audacity of his presence, he looked the very incarnation of persuasive joy; the divine glamour of success was like an atmosphere about him; he carried himself with the compelling confidence of a young god;—it was Bacchus wooing Ariadne beside the rippling sea. 'My Italia, you are not betrothed?' he repeated softly.
Her face had turned very pale: her lips quivered.