“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.”
“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.”