"Thou art restless," he said, suddenly and sternly; "what aileth thee?"
Her lip quivered, but she did not look up, while with an effort she steadied the movement of her hand and continued her work. "My hand hath no cunning to-night, and it vexeth me, my father."
"It is poor work when the heart is lacking," he answered, in a tone charged with irritation. "I also have seen a thing which hath taken my heart from me."
The color deepened in her cheeks and the pencil strokes came more falteringly, but she answered nothing.
"Nay, then!" he exclaimed, more brusquely than his wont, as he stretched out his hand and arrested her movement. "What I have to say to thee importeth much."
She flushed and paled with the struggle of the moment, then a beautiful calm came over her face; she laid down her pencil and, quietly dropping her hands in her lap, she turned to him with a smile that might have disarmed an angrier man—it was full of tenderness, though it was shadowed by pain.
It relaxed his sternness, and, after a moment's hesitation, he came around the table and sat down beside her.
"To-night is the fête at Ca' Giustiniani, for the young noble of their house."
He waited for her to speak, but she did not tremble now, though he was searching her face.
"Yes, father, I know."