He glared fiercely at her--as fiercely as it was _in_
his mild old eyes to glare. He held himself erect and aloof, in a
posture that was eloquent of haughty indignation.

"I will ask your Excellency a single question. Are you or are you not
the Countess of Sampaolo?" he demanded sternly.

But Susanna was incorrigible.

"At your service--unless I was changed at nurse," she assented,
dropping a curtsey; and an imp laughed in her eyes.

"And are you aware," the Commendatore pursued, with the tremor of
restrained passion in his voice, "that the Countess of Sampaolo, a
countess in her own right, is a public personage? Are you aware that
the actions you are proposing--which would be disgraceful enough if you
were any little obscure bourgeoise--must precipitate a public scandal?
Have you reflected that it will all be printed in the newspapers, for
men to snigger at in their cafes, for women to cackle over in their
boudoirs? Have you reflected that you will make yourself a nine-days'
wonder, a subject for tittle-tattle with all the gossip-mongers of
Europe? Are you without pride, without modesty?"

Susanna arched her eyebrows, in amiable surprise.

"Oh?" she said. "Have I omitted to mention that I 'm to do the whole
thing in masquerade? How stupid of me. Yes,"--her voice became
explanatory,--"it's essential, you see, that my cousin Antonio should
never dream who I really am. He must fancy that I 'm just
anybody--till the time comes for me to cast my domino, and reveal the
fairy-princess. So I travel under a nom-de-guerre. I 'm a widow, a
rich, charming, dashing, not too-disconsolate widow; and my name . . .
is Madame Fregi."

She brought out the last words after an instant's irresolution, and
marked them by a hazardous little smile.

"What!" thundered the Commendatore. "You would dare to take _my_ name
as a cloak for your escapades? I forbid it. Understand. I
peremptorily forbid it."

He stamped his foot, he nodded his outraged head, menacingly.

But Susanna was indeed incorrigible.

"Dear me," she grieved; "I hoped you would be touched by the
compliment. How strange men are. Never mind, though," she said, with
gay resignation. "I 'll call myself something else. Let's
think. . . . Would--would Torrebianca do?" Her eyes sought counsel
from his face.

Torrebianca, I need n't remind those who are familiar with Sampaolo, is
the name of a mountain, a bare, white, tower-like peak of rock, that
ris