And, as he spoke, he smoothed down her glossy, luxuriant hair with his open palm.
“But doubtless your two companions found more difficulty in consoling themselves for the disappointment?” said Laura.
“Faith! dear lady,” exclaimed Lorenzo, “they spoke but little on the subject: for, to tell you the truth, your beauty had not failed to produce a very sensible effect on them as well as upon myself.”
“Flatterer!” cried Laura, playfully caressing the handsome Italian.
“Oh! you know that you are lovely—transcendently lovely!” he exclaimed, in an ardent tone; “and you can well believe me when I assure you that my two friends escaped not the magic influence of your charms. But how different were the effects thus produced! Di Ponta—that is the name of my fellow-countryman—was enthusiastic and rapturous in your praise; whereas Charles Hatfield—the Englishman—became gloomy, morose, and sullen——”
“A singular effect for the good looks of a woman to produce!” cried Laura, laughing—while her heart beat with the joy of a proud triumph.
“Such, nevertheless, was the case in this instance, my angel,” said Lorenzo. “I do firmly believe that Hatfield was jealous of me in being the happy mortal who perceived the loss of your parasol, and had the honour of restoring it;—yes—jealous, dear lady, because that happy accident introduced me to your notice, and privileged me to address you.”
“Your English friend must be a very weak-minded young man,” observed Laura; “and I am truly delighted that it was not he whose acquaintance I was destined to make this day.”
“Nevertheless, he is very handsome,” said Lorenzo, gazing upon the syren with a playful affectation of jealousy.
“Not so handsome as you, my Barthelma,” replied Laura, with simulated enthusiasm; and, in order to dispel the partial coldness which a digression from amorous topics had allowed to creep over her, she cast her arms around Lorenzo’s neck and fastened her lips to his.