“If you do not know her story, it is too long to be told here.”
I could not help gazing at her, and two minutes later an ill-looking fellow beside her came up to my companion and whispered something in his ear.
The knight turned towards me and informed me in the most polite manner that the lady whose name I had asked desired to know mine.
I was silly enough to be flattered by her curiosity, and told the messenger that if the lady would allow me I would come to her box and tell her my name in person after the performance.
“From your accent I should suppose you were an Italian.”
“I am a Venetian.”
“So is she.”
When he had gone away my neighbour seemed inclined to be more communicative, and informed me that Nina was a dancer whom the Count de Ricla, the Viceroy of Barcelona, was keeping for some weeks at Valentia, till he could get her back to Barcelona, whence the bishop of the diocese had expelled her on account of the scandals to which she gave rise. “The count,” he added, “is madly in love with her, and allows her fifty doubloons a day.”
“I should hope she does not spend them.”
“She can’t do that, but she does not let a day pass without committing some expensive act of folly.”