While Rosabella was still buried in her own reflections, the excellent Camilla advanced from a side path, and hastened to join her pupil. Rosabella started.
Rosabella.—Ah! dear Camilla, is it you? What brings you hither?
Camilla.—You often call me your guardian angel, and guardian angels should always be near the object of their care.
Rosabella.—Camilla, I have been thinking over your arguments; I cannot deny that all you have said to me is very true, and very wise, but still—
Camilla.—But still, though your prudence agrees with me, your heart is of a contrary opinion.
Rosabella.—It is, indeed.
Camilla.—Nor do I blame your heart for differing from me, my poor girl. I have acknowledged to you without disguise that were I at your time of life, and were such a man as Flodoardo to throw himself in my way, I could not receive his attentions with indifference. It cannot be denied that this young stranger is uncommonly pleasing, and, indeed, for any woman whose heart is disengaged, an uncommonly dangerous companion. There is something very prepossessing in his appearance, his manners are elegant, and short as has been his abode in Venice, it is already past doubting that there are many noble and striking features in his character. But alas, after all, he is but a poor nobleman, and it is not very probable that the rich and powerful Doge of Venice will ever bestow his niece on one who, to speak plainly, arrived here little better than a beggar. No, no, child, believe me, a romantic adventurer is no fit husband for Rosabella of Corfu.
Rosabella.—Dear Camilla, who was talking about husbands? What I feel for Flodoardo is merely affection, friendship.
Camilla.—Indeed! Then you would be perfectly satisfied, should some one of our wealthy ladies bestow her hand on Flodoardo?
Rosabella (hastily).—Oh! Flodoardo would not accept her hand, Camilla; of that I am sure.