y beheld you with admiration!
Be at ease, however, my dear girl. Fancy what has happened to be a mere
dream. The result will be less, even, than a dream. You will be assured
to-day from all similar designs.

EMILIA.

No, mother! The Count must know it--to him I must relate it.

CLAUDIA.

Not for the world. Wherefore? Why? Do you wish to make him uneasy
without a cause? And granting that he may not become so at
present--know, my child, the poison which does not operate immediately,
is not on that account less dangerous. That which has no effect upon
the lover, may produce a serious one upon the husband. The lover might
even be flattered at winning the prize from so great a rival; but when
he has won it--alas, my dear Emilia, the lover often becomes quite
another being. Heaven preserve you from such experience!

EMILIA.

You know, dear mother, how willingly I ever submit to your superior
judgment. But should he learn from another that the Prince spoke
to me to-day, would not my silence sooner or later increase his
uneasiness?--I think it would be better not to conceal anything from
him.

CLAUDIA.

Weakness--a fond weakness. No, on no account, my daughter! Tell him
nothing. Let him observe nothing.

EMILIA.

I submit. I have no will, dear mother, opposed to yours. Ah! (_sighing
deeply_), I shall soon be well again. What a silly, timid thing I am!
am I not, mother? I might have conducted myself otherwise, and should,
perhaps, have compromised myself just a little.

CLAUDIA.

I would not say this, my daughter, till your own good sense had spoken,
which I was sure would be as soon as your alarm was at an end. The
Prince is a gallant. You are too little used to the unmeaning language
of gallantry. In your mind a civility becomes an emotion--a compliment,
a declaration--an idea, a wish--a wish, a design. A mere nothing, in
this language, sounds like everything, while everything is in reality
nothing.

EMILIA.

Dear mother, my terror cannot but appear ridiculous to myself now. But
my kind Appiani shall know nothing of it. He might, perhaps, think me
more vain than virtuous----Ah! there he comes himself. That is his
step.

Scene VII.

_Enter_ Appiani, _in