She laughed nervously, and played with her ring of rose-brilliants.
“It is not yet too late,” I resumed, “if on second thoughts you would rather not marry me, you have only to say so. I shall accept my fate with equanimity, and shall not blame you.”
At this she seemed quite alarmed, and rising, laid her hand pleadingly on my arm.
“Surely you are not offended?” she said. “I was not really afraid of you, you know—it was a stupid fancy—I cannot explain it. But I am quite well now, and I am only too happy. Why, I would not lose your love for all the world—you must believe me!”
And she touched my hand caressingly with her lips. I withdrew it gently, and stroked her hair with an almost parental tenderness; then I said quietly:
“If so, we are agreed, and all is well. Let me advise you to take a long night’s rest: your nerves are weak and somewhat shaken. You wish me to keep our engagement secret?”
She thought for a moment, then answered musingly:
“For the present perhaps it would be best. Though,” and she laughed, “it would be delightful to see all the other women jealous and envious of my good fortune! Still, if the news were told to any of our friends—who knows?—it might accidentally reach Guido, and—”
“I understand! You may rely upon my discretion. Good-night, contessa!”
“You may call me Nina,” she murmured, softly.