affection for her aunt and uncle, yet she knew that there was a
bond; and she was sincerely attached to Bosio for his own sake.

She had photographs of all three on the mantelpiece, in silver
frames,--that of her aunt standing in the middle, and one of the men on
either side. She looked at Bosio's, taking it down from its place. She
looked at it critically, and seeing a speck of dust on the glass, just
over the face, she passed her handkerchief over it, polishing the
surface, and looking at it again. From the photograph any one would
have said that Bosio was a handsome man, for he photographed well, as
the phrase goes. His clear, pale complexion, his well-cut, refined
features, his smooth, thick, silky hair looked singularly well against
the smoked background, and had at once the strength and the transparency
which make a good photograph by adding an illusion of relief to the
flatness of mere outline and light and shade. Probably the likeness was
flattered. But Veronica did not think so just then, coming as she did
from a disillusionment which had affected her more strongly than she
knew. She compared Bosio with Gianluca, in appearance, and Gianluca
lacked almost everything which could bear comparison. She compared Bosio
with Taquisara, and she preferred the quiet refinement of the one to the
bold eyes and high aquiline features of the other. At least, she thought
so. But she also preferred Taquisara to Gianluca, by many degrees of
preference. Yet both these men were commonly spoken of as handsome.

She thought of another point, too, and with her blood it was natural
that she should think of it. If she married Bosio, he would take her
name and titles; not she, his. She would rule the house and be
independent--not of him, exactly, for she was fond of him and had no
desire to be despotic over him, but of parents and elders and relations
who would think it their right to advise and guide. All this would be
different with Gianluca for her husband. The Della Spina were proud of
their name and would expect her to bear it. They were numerous, too; the
old father and mother would oppress and burden her life, and the
brothers and sisters of Gianluca would grow up to be more or less of a
perpetual annoyance to their elder brother's wife. Of that side of life
her aunt had given her more than one picture, intentionally exaggerating
a little, perhaps, for her own purposes. And from Bianca she had heard
many things of the same kind.