"You are unreasonable, Bianca, you are not like yourself this morning; I don't know what is come to you. What in the world do you like, or what do you want?" said the old man, looking at her with a puzzled air.
"Did you see the Marchese Ludovico in a box on the right-hand side on the second tier with that Venetian girl, the artist?"
"The Marchese Ludovico was in the left-hand stage-box with his uncle."
"Of course he was; but I mean between the acts. I saw him from the wing by the side of that girl with her face the colour of mahogany, and her half-alive look. I hate the look of her, and I know she hates me!"
Old Quinto looked at his pupil curiously for a minute before he replied to her.
"What do you mean, Bianca mia?" he said, at last; "and what, in the name of all the Saints, is the Venetian girl to you, or you to her? Did you ever speak to her? Why should she hate you?"
"I tell you, she does. We women can always see those things without needing to be told them; and she knows, you may be very sure, that I hate her."
"But why? What is she to you?" reiterated the old man.
"You asked me, just now, what I wanted. I want, if you must know, what I can never have—what the Venetian girl last night was getting."
"And what was she getting? I don't understand you, upon my soul!" said Quinto, staring at her, and utterly puzzled.