She had drawn herself back away from him as far as the breadth of the sofa would allow, yet without withdrawing her hand from him; and she looked at him certainly more in sorrow than in anger,--looked into his face earnestly with grave, sad eyes, and heaved a long sigh as he, after pressing the hurt hand to his lips, rose from his knees and took the chair she had pointed to. "Pain you, Bianca?" he said, as he sat down; "why should I pain you? You do me no more than justice when you say that I would not do so willingly; but have you thought how much pain you inflict on me by thus keeping me at a distance from you? I think you must know that. Is there aught to offend you in anything that I have done, or said, or hoped, or wished?" "I think, Signor Marchese," she said, dropping her large eyes beneath their long fringes, and looking adorably lovely as she did so, "I am afraid that what you have wished is--what some might deem offensive to a lady." And as she spoke she looked out furtively from behind her eyelashes. "Bianca, is that reasonable?" he said, in a tone of remonstrance. "Diamine, let us talk common sense; we are not children. Have you always found such wishes as mine offensive in others?" "Yes, always--always offensive, always cruel," she said, with extreme energy; "but--can you not understand, Signor Marchese,--can you not conceive that what from one man passes and makes no mark, and leaves no sting, may from another--What cared I what all the empty-headed young fops who came in my way could say or do; they were nothing to me. But--I did not expect pain from the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare. I--I thought--I hoped--I--I flattered myself--fool, idiot fool that I have been!" she exclaimed, bursting into violent sobs, and hiding her face with her hands.