"Let it believe what it likes," she said. "If society cares to think that I have allowed my life to be turned upside down for the sake of hatred, let it do so."
The Baron's secretary interrupted by opening the door.
"Nazzareno, Excellency," said the secretary.
"Ah! Let him come in," said the Baron. "You remember Nazzareno, Roma? My steward at Albano?"
An elderly man with a bronzed face and shaggy eyebrows, bringing an odour of the fields and the farmyard, was ushered into the room.
"Come in, Nazzareno! You've not forgotten Donna Roma? You planted a rosebush on her first Roman birthday, you remember. It's a great tree by this time, perhaps."
"It is, Excellency," said the steward, bowing and smiling, "and nearly as full of bloom as the Signorina herself."
"Well, what news from Albano?"
The steward told a long story of operations on the estates—planting birch in the top fields, and eucalyptus in the low meadow, fencing, draining, and sowing.
"And ... and the Baroness?" said the Baron, turning over some papers.