At these words Irene ran and barred the way—not like a fierce mastiff, but like an angel, entreating me to stay with that mingled look of innocence, fear, and hope, of which girls know the effect so well. I felt I could not go.
"Let me through, fair Irene," said I, "we may see each other somewhere else."
"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."