enta, seeing what was coming, was beforehand.

"Be silent, Baldassare," he exclaimed, "or, per Dio, I will never
bring you here again."

Before Baldassare could offer his apologies, the count burst in--

"I propose that we shall show the signorina something that will amuse
her." He thought for a moment. "Have you ever ascended the old tower
of this palace?" he asked.

Enrica shook her head.

"Then I propose the Guinigi Tower--the stairs are rather rickety, but
they are not unsafe. I was there the last time I visited Lucca. The
view over the Apennines is superb. Will you trust yourself to us,
signorina?"

Enrica raised her head and looked at him hesitatingly, glanced at
her aunt, then looked at him again. Until the marchesa had spoken she
dared not reply. She longed to go. If she ascended the tower, might
she not see Nobili? She had not set her eyes on him for a whole week.

Marescotti saw her hesitation, but he misunderstood the cause. He
returned her look with an ardent glance. Where was the young Madonna
leading him? He did not stop to inquire, but surrendered himself to
the enchantment of her presence.

"Is my proposal accepted?" Count Marescotti inquired, anxiously
turning toward the marchesa, who sat listening to them with a
deeply-offended air.

"And mine too?" put in the cavaliere. "Both can be combined. I should
so much like to show Enrica the tombs of the Trenta. We have been a
famous family in our time. Do not refuse us, marchesa."

All this was entirely out of the habits of Casa Guinigi. Hitherto
Enrica had been kept in absolute subjection. If she were present no
one spoke to her, or noticed her. Now all this was to be changed,
because Count Marescotti had come up from Rome. Enrica was not only to
be gazed at and flattered, but to engross attention.

The marchesa showed evident tokens of serious displeasure. Had Count
Marescotti not been present, she would assuredly have expressed this
displeasure in very strong language. In all matters connected with her
niece, with her household, and with the management of her own affairs,
she could not tolerate remark, much less interference. Every kind of
interference was offensive to her. She believed in herself, as I have
said, blindly: never, up to that time, had that belief been shaken.
All this discussion was, to her mind, worse than interference--it was
absolute revolution. She inwardly resolved to shut up her house and
go into the country, rather than