Bianca shook her head. "I do not laugh at you," she said slowly. "I am sorry for you. I would help you if I could; but how can I?"
She moved towards the casino as she spoke.
"Listen!" she added, "the rain is coming on more heavily. Do you not hear it on the leaves? And it grows darker again."
He followed her to the summer-house, but as she pushed open the door he drew back, and glanced at her hesitatingly.
"I will remain here," he said. "Afterwards, when the shower is over, if you will let me speak to you—"
Bianca Acorari looked at him. "Come," she said, briefly.
It was an unheard of proceeding. Verily, as Monsieur d'Antin had said, Bianca was no child—unless, indeed, she was more childish than her years warranted. Any behavior more diametrically opposed to all the rules and customs that so strictly regulate the actions of a young girl in Italy could scarcely be conceived.
Silvio Rossano himself was taken aback at her confidence in him. Her demeanor was so natural, however, and her manner, after the first surprise of seeing him had passed, had become so self-possessed, that he never for an instant misunderstood her.
Bianca seated herself upon a dilapidated chair—the only one, indeed, having its full complement of legs that the casino contained.
"Mademoiselle Durand said that if I—if we ever met, you would perhaps ask me for my advice," she said, gravely. "I cannot understand why you should think any advice of mine could help you. Perhaps she made a mistake, and you are here by accident."