"Favorably, madam," answered the signora, rising from her seat.
"That is a beautiful part that you are engaged upon, Gina. Bring it forward, that we may exhibit our handiwork."
Gina Montani, without raising her eyes, and trembling inwardly and outwardly, rose, and advanced with the embroidery. The Signora Lucrezia eyed her, covertly.
"Is it not a handsome pattern?" exclaimed Adelaide, her thoughts now really occupied with the beauty of the work. "And I was so industrious while you were away, Giovanni. I did a good portion of this myself—I did, indeed; all the shadings of the rosebuds are my doing, and those interlaces of silver."
The Lady Adelaide stopped, for, on looking to his face for approbation, she was startled by the frightful pallor which had overspread it. "Oh, Giovanni, you are ill!—my husband, what is it? Giovanni—"
"It is nothing," interrupted the count, leading her hurriedly from the room. "I rode hard, and the sun was hot. A cup of wine will restore me."
But not less awake to this emotion of the count's than she had been to Gina's, was the Signora Lucrezia, and she came to the conclusion that there was some unaccountable mystery at the bottom of it, which she determined to do all in her power to find out.
VII.
Days passed. The count had not yet seen Gina alone, though he had sought for the opportunity; but one morning when he entered the Lady Adelaide's embroidery room—so called—Gina sat there alone, sorting silks. He did not observe her at the first moment, and, being in search of his wife, called to her, "Adelaide!"
"The Lady Adelaide is not here, signor," was Gina's reply, as she rose from her seat.