He smiled at her earnestness—men are never so rapturously blind in the worship of their first-born as women. But he stooped down, and fondly pressed his lips upon her forehead, while he played with the little hand of the infant; and she yielded to the temptation of suffering her face to rest close to his. "But it grows late," resumed the young mother, "and I suppose we ought to be going. Take the baby to its nurse, Lucrezia," she continued, kissing it fifty times as she resigned it. The count had drawn behind the Lady Adelaide, where stood Gina. As his eyes happened to fall upon her, he was struck by the pallid sorrow which sat in her countenance. Ill-fated Gina! and he had been so absorbed these last few weeks in his new happiness! A rush of pity, mingled perhaps with self-reproach, flew to his heart. What compensation could he offer her? In that moment he remembered her last words at the interview in his wife’s embroidery-room, and gave her _a look_. It was not to be mistaken. Love—love, pure and tender—gleamed from his eyes, and she answered him with a smile which told of her thanks, and that he was perfectly understood. Had any one been looking on, they could scarcely fail to become aware of their existing passion, and that there was a secret understanding between them. _And one was looking on._ The Lady Adelaide’s back was towards them, but in the large glass before her she had distinctly seen the reflection of all that took place. Her countenance became white as death, and her anger was terrible. "You may retire for the present," she said, in a calm, subdued tone, to the startled Gina, upon whose mind flashed somewhat of the truth; "and tell the Signora Lucrezia not to return until I call for her."