pect
of his marriage, from which she was sure of extracting notable financial
advantage. But in this he was not just, though he judged from long
experience. Monsieur Leroy alone knew the secret, and he kept his own
counsel.

An inquisitive friend asked the Countess Fortiguerra boldly whether she
intended to announce the engagement of her daughter at the garden party.

"No," she answered, without hesitation, "that would be premature."

She was careful, in a way, to do nothing irrevocable--never to take
Guido into her carriage, not to ask him to dinner when there were other
guests, not to leave him alone with Cecilia when there was a possibility
of such a thing being noticed by the servants, except by the discreet
Petersen, who could be trusted, and who strongly approved of Guido from
the first. But when it was quite safe, the Countess used to go and sit
in a little boudoir adjoining the drawing-room, leaving the doors open,
of course, and occupying herself with her correspondence; and Guido and
Cecilia talked without restraint.

The Countess had enough womanly and instinctive wisdom not to ask
questions of her daughter at this stage, but on the day before the
long-expected garden party she spoke to Guido alone, in a little set
speech which she had prepared with more conscientiousness than
diplomatic skill.

"You have seen," she said, "that I am always glad to receive you here,
and that I often leave you and Cecilia together in the drawing-room.
Dear Signor d'Este, I am sure you will understand me if I ask you
to--to--to tell me something."

She had meant to end the sentence differently, rounding it off with
"your intentions with regard to my daughter"; but that sounded like
something in a letter, so she tried to make it more vague. But Guido
understood, which is not surprising.

"You have been very kind to me," he said simply. "I love your daughter
sincerely, and if she will consent to marry me I shall do my best to
make her happy. But, so far, I have no reason to think that she will
accept me. Besides, whether you know it already or not, I must tell you
that I am a poor man. I have no fortune whatever, though I receive an
allowance by my father's will, which is enough for a bachelor. It will
cease at my death. Your daughter could make a very much more brilliant
marriage."

The good Countess had listened in silence. The Princess, for reasons of
her own, had explained Guido's position with considerable minutenes