‘Good. Then hear now what I have to say to Signora Hastings and to you. I will place the two situations before you, and you can choose between them. I have no doubt as to which course you will pursue.’ She paused for a moment, and then, with solemnity, and sweetness too, which extorted from Minna an unwilling admiration, she proceeded: ‘Fulvia mia, I must touch upon topics which it is best that young girls should know nothing about. Signora Hastings has driven me to this painful position by her no doubt well-meant meddling in a matter which she does not understand. You will soon be a wife, and your eyes could not much longer remain closed to much that is sad and evil in this world. You have always been to me a sweet and obedient child, and, but for this unhappy interference of a stranger in our affairs, I believe you would have been the same in this case as in all others. My daughter, have I ever treated you with unkindness? Recall all you can remember of your childhood and youth, and tell me, do you recollect any unkindness from me to you?’ ‘No, mamma. You have always, until now, been good to me--kind and indulgent.’ ‘Until now. That is, it seems to you that now I am no longer kind and indulgent. But has it never occurred to you that perhaps you did not quite understand all that I am doing?’ Fulvia was silent. She was still seated on the sofa, looking white and miserable. Signora Dietrich had placed herself beside her, and she now proceeded: ‘My child! I know even more of your recent thoughts than you suppose. In your short life you have had little sorrow and much joy--no deceptions, no disappointments. In mine, which seems to me a long one, I have lived through grief and bitterness of which you can form no conception. I pass over that for the present. Just now I ask you only one question, but I ask it solemnly, and I bid you reply to it with absolute truth and candour. Never mind if you hurt me. I know what your answer will be if you speak the truth. On your honour, then, of all those who surround you, and whom you know--of all your friends, all your relations, not excepting me--whom do you love the most?’ Fulvia was troubled by this question, and did not immediately reply to it. Her hands moved nervously; her face grew red, and then pale again. But at last, raising her eyes, which were filled with a tender light, she looked full at her mother, and in a very low but perfectly audible voice replied: ‘Beppo, my mother.’ Signora Dietrich bowed her head gravely and assentingly.