“But if,” resumed she, seriously,--“if I only see in this project a mere caprice, half--more than half--based upon the pleasure of wounding family pride, or of coercing those who have hitherto dictated to you; if, besides this, I perceive that there is no strong affection on either side, none of that impetuous passion which the world accepts as 'the attenuating circumstance' in rash marriages--” “And who has told you that I do not love Ida, or that she is not devoted with her whole heart to _me?_” cried he, interrupting her. “You yourself have told the first. You have shown by the price you have laid on the object the value at which you estimate it. As for the latter part of your question--” She paused, and arranged the folds of her shawl, purposely playing with his impatience, and enjoying it. “Well,” cried he, “as for the latter part; go on.” “It scarcely requires an answer. I saw Ida Delia Torre last night in a society of which her affianced husband was not one; and, I will be bold enough to say, hers was not the bearing that bespoke engaged affections.” “Indeed!” said he, but in a tone that indicated neither displeasure nor surprise. “It was as I have told you, Count. Surrounded by the youth of Florence, such as you know them, she laughed, and talked, and sang, in all the careless gayety of a heart at ease; or, if at moments a shade of sadness crossed her features, it was so brief that only one observing her closely as myself could mark it.” “And how did that subtle intelligence of yours interpret this show of sorrow?” said he, in a voice of mockery, but yet of deep anxiety. “My subtle intelligence was not taxed to guess, for I knew her secret,” said the Princess, with all the strength of conscious power. “Her secret--her secret!” said he, eagerly. “What do you mean by that?” The Princess smiled coldly, and said, “I have not yet found my frankness so well repaid that I should continue to extend it.” “What is the reward to be, madam? Name it,” said he, boldly. “The same candor on your part, Count; I ask for no more.” “But what have I to reveal; what mystery is there that your omniscience has not penetrated?” “There may be some that your frankness has not avowed, my dear Count.” “If you refer to what you have called Ida's secret--” “No,” broke she in. “I was now alluding to what might be called _your_ secret.” “Mine! _my_ secret!” exclaimed he. But though the tone was meant to convey great astonishment, the confusion of his manner was far more apparent. “Your secret, Count,” she repeated slowly, “which has been just as safe in my keeping as if it had been confided to me on honor.” “I was not aware how much I owed to your discretion, madam,” said he, scoffingly.