“Pray do not go before you have seen my father.”
The words were spoken so tenderly that our lips met. Irene was victorious. How can one resist a pretty girl who implores with a kiss? I took a chair, and Irene, proud of her victory, sat on my knee and covered me with kisses.
I took it into my head to task the countess where and when Irene was born.
“At Mantua,” said she, “three months after I left Venice.”
“And when did you leave Venice?”
“Six months after I met you.”
“That is a curious coincidence, and if we had been tenderly acquainted you might say that Irene was my daughter, and I should believe you, and think that my affection for her was purely paternal.”
“Your memory is not very good, sir, I wonder at that.”
“I may tell you, that I never forget certain things, But I guess your meaning. You want me to subdue my liking for Irene. I am willing to do so, but she will be the loser.”
This conversation had silenced Irene, but she soon took courage, and said she was like me.