She gave a little nervous laugh.
"Stefano Maconi,—one of the nobles of the court!" she said, with a drooping of the head. Then with a quick touch of resentment: "Have you heard the name before?"
Francesco ignored the irony of her tones.
"What is he to you?" he queried sternly. His face looked pale and drawn, his eyes shone with an almost supernatural lustre.
"Really," she squirmed, "I knew not that I stood in need of a confessor. I have one already,—and I do not intend to supplant him with another!"
"You have not answered my question!" he insisted. "To the office of your confessor I do not aspire. I am not suited for that exalted position!"
There was something in his eyes that frightened her.
"And why?"—she faltered.
"I should not prove so passive a listener!"
For a moment she faced him in silence. Then, with a sudden return of her old hauteur, she flashed: