“Did you ever see my late husband?” she asked.
“Once,” I answered her, gravely. “He was a mere child at the time, and, as far as I could discern, a very promising one. His father seemed greatly attached to him. I knew his mother also.”
“Indeed,” she exclaimed, settling herself on a low ottoman and fixing her eyes upon me; “what was she like?”
I paused a moment before replying. Could I speak of that unstained sacred life of wifehood and motherhood to this polluted though lovely creature?
“She was a beautiful woman unconscious of her beauty,” I answered at last. “There, all is said. Her sole aim seemed to be to forget herself in making others happy, and to surround her home with an atmosphere of goodness and virtue. She died young.”
Ferrari glanced at me with an evil sneer in his eyes.
“That was fortunate,” he said. “She had no time to tire of her husband, else—who knows?”
My blood rose rapidly to an astonishing heat, but I controlled myself.
“I do not understand you,” I said, with marked frigidity. “The lady I speak of lived and died under the old regime of noblesse oblige. I am not so well versed in modern social forms of morality as yourself.”
Nina hastily interposed. “Oh, my dear conte,” she said, laughingly, “pay no attention to Signor Ferrari! He is rash sometimes, and says very foolish things, but he really does not mean them. It is only his way! My poor dear husband used to be quite vexed with him sometimes, though he was so fond of him. But, conte, as you know so much about the family, I am sure you will like to see my little Stella. Shall I send for her, or are you bored by children?”