He expressed himself so strongly that Beatrice could not refuse. Formerly she would have considered that it was infamous for her to take that noble name; but now this idea had become weak, and it was with a strange exultation that she yielded to the solicitations of Despard.
Langhetti himself yielded at once. His face bore an expression of delight which seemed inexplicable to Beatrice. She asked him why he felt such pleasure. Was not an Italian name better for a singer? Despard was an English name, and, though aristocratic, was not one which a great singer might have.
“I am thinking of other things, my Bicina,” said Langhetti, who had never given up his old, fond, fraternal manner toward her. “It has no connection with art. I do not consider the mere effect of the name for one moment.”
“What is it, then, that you do consider?”
“Other things.”
“What other things?”
“Not connected with Art,” continued Langhetti, evasively. “I will tell you some day when the time comes.”
“Now you are exciting my curiosity,” said Beatrice, in a low and earnest tone. “You do not know what thoughts you excite within me. Either you ought not to excite such ideas, or if you do, it is your duty to satisfy them.”
“It is not time yet.”
“What do you mean by that?”