Meanwhile Karl von Steinberg knew nothing of what went on during his absences from home, or that his wife ever sat for the amusement of the grandees who commenced to throng her receptions. He often wondered _where_ she had picked them up, or how contrived to induce them to visit her, but he knew she was very clever, and admired her all the more for each fresh proof she gave him of it. He was not blind, however, to the kudos, which accrued to both of them, from the presence of the nobility in his wife’s drawing-rooms, and he evinced it by the frequency with which he showed himself there. He constantly found the Marchesa the centre of an adoring group of ladies, and an admiring crowd of men, and the fact bound him closer to her. We always like others to approve of what we like ourselves--so long as they do not go too far! There was one man, however--an Italian of the name of Gueglielmo, whom Karl von Steinberg began to view with aversion. He used to take his stand behind the Marchesa’s sofa, and remain there the entire evening, whispering in her ear, or gazing at her face and figure. Once, Von Steinberg spoke to his wife about the too evident admiration of Signor Gueglielmo, and expressed his wish that she should discourage him a little, by directing her attention to the other gentlemen of the party. “Discourage Gueglielmo!” she exclaimed tartly, “and why? Because he is the only one of my countrymen present! I shall do no such thing!” Von Steinberg regarded her with surprise! She was beginning to use the same tone with him, that she had with his friend Ricardo. “Your countryman!” he repeated; “what absurdity are you thinking of? Your being styled ‘Marchesa’ does not constitute you an Italian! He is neither your countryman nor mine, and I will not have him so much about the house. If you do not give him a hint on the subject, I shall!” “Then you may do your dirty work yourself,” retorted Hannah. “I like him and I shall not tell him otherwise. He is Italian! He soothes me!” “You will have to obey me all the same,” said the Baron, angrily. “If ever I catch him leaning over your sofa again in the open fashion he did last night, I’ll----” “Run me through with a dagger, I suppose!” interposed Hannah, with the sudden, cunning, evil look in her eyes, which he could never understand. “What made you say that?” he asked, quickly. She shrugged her shoulders, and commenced to whistle a popular air.