A shadow seemed to fall on Count de Montevesso's face for the moment. Clelia unclasped her fingers, shook her fists at the empty space, then clasped her legs again. These movements, full of sombre energy, were observed silently by the Count of Montevesso. He uttered the word "Patienza," which in its humility is the word of the ambitious, of the unforgiving who keep a strict account with the world; a word of indomitable hope. "You wait till you are a little older. You will have plenty of people at your feet; and then you will be able to spurn anybody you like."
"You mean when I am married," said Clelia in a faraway voice and staring straight over her knees.
"Yes," said the Count de Montevesso, "but you will first have to learn to be gentle."
This recommendation apparently missed the ear for which it was destined. For a whole minute Clelia seemed to contemplate some sort of vision with her predatory and pathetic stare. One side of her nightgown had slipped off her shoulder. Suddenly she pushed her scattered hair back, and extending her arm towards Count Helion patted him caressingly on the cheek.
When she had done patting him he asked, unmoved: "Now, what is it you want?"
She was careful not to turn her face his way while she whispered: "I want that young signor that came to-day to make eyes at my aunt."
"Impossible."
"Why impossible? I was with them in the morning. They did nothing but look at each other. But I went for him myself."
"That Englishman! You can't have an Englishman like this. I am thinking of something better for you, a marquis or a count."
This was the exact truth, not a sudden idea to meet a hopeless case.