What had he to offer to Veronica if she
were poor? He might have lost her
altogether! And his instinctive conviction
that she was incapable of loving him with
a love which should enable her to endure
poverty for his sake, did not militate
against the strength of his passion for her.

But suppose, after all, she were to throw
him over, now that she was secure. She
would be very rich—that he took for
granted; and would have a brilliant position
in her own country. He became nervously
impatient to see her again, and yet he
dreaded to find a change in her manner.

He had met Veronica twice, since their
first memorable interview in the Villa
Reale. She had debated anxiously with
herself whether she had not best break her
appointment.  But she had come to the
conclusion that she did not dare to drive
Barletti to desperation. He might in his
rashness dash the cup from her lips, even at
the last moment. They had met, therefore,
and Barletti had given his report of the
doctor's opinion, and then had claimed in
reward of his zeal the privilege of protesting
his devoted love. Veronica had made
the interview as brief as possible on each
occasion.  But she had been gentle and soft
in her manner to Barletti, and had
professed herself very grateful for the trouble
he had taken.

He tried to recal the minutest
circumstances of these interviews; at one moment
twisting and interpreting Veronica's looks
and words into an acknowledgment of her
love for him; at another, telling himself
that it was plain she cared no jot for him,
and was only using his devotion without a
thought of reciprocating it. All his
meditations resulted in an impatient longing to
see and speak with Veronica. He resolved
to take the step of going to the palazzo she
inhabited at once, instead of waiting for the
usual hour of his evening visit.

The wretched little cab-horse, which,
like most of its class in Naples, seemed to
have a mysterious force not derived from
food, and which had continued its shuffling
trot as though, poor beast, it were
desperately trying to run away from existence,
was pulled up with a sudden check at a
signal from Barletti. He alighted, paid for
his drive, and walked hastily away. The
sum he gave the driver inspired in that
individual sentiments of mingled contempt
and self-reproach. The contempt was
excited by the spectacle of a man—a native
Neapolitan, too, per Bacco!—so soft as to
pay him three times his fare. The reason
of his self-reproach, of a rather poignant
kind, was that he had not had presence of
mind to demand double the money!

Barletti, on presenting himself at Sir
John Gale's house, was told by the porter
that his master could see no one. He had
been out that morning, and was fatigued
and unwell.

"Miladi, then?" asked Barletti.

The man looked a little surprised at the
unprecedented circumstance of Barletti's
asking for "miladi" at that hour; but he
said he would send to ask whether the
signora could receive the signor principe.
While he waited for the message to be
taken up, Barletti's mind misgave him as to
the advisability of the step he had taken.
He wished he could have gone without
delay into her presence.  This waiting gave
one time to cool and to take account of
unpleasant possibilities.

When Veronica's maid tripped
downstairs and invited Barletti to follow her to
miladi's boudoir, he was in a state of great
trepidation. The boudoir was untenanted
when he entered it, and for the moment he
felt this to be a relief. He sat down and
waited, looking round on the evidences of
wealth which met his eye, and feeling a
very unaccustomed amount of self-depreciation
and timidity.

The door opened, and Veronica appeared.
She wore a changing silk dress, whose
hue deepened in the shadows of its sweeping
folds from silver grey to dove colour.
Round the throat and wrists was a small
frill of fine lace. There was not a gleam
of jewellery about her, save on the third
finger of her left hand, where a massive
gold ring was half hidden in the blaze of
a single splendid diamond set in a broad
band of gold and surmounting the plain
ring. She was pale, and looked tired.

"What is it?" she asked, advancing
with slow grace, and giving him her hand.

He forgot everything in the enchantment
of gazing on her beauty, and stood silently
holding her hand in his, and feeling his
heart so full of mingled emotions that the
tears welled up into his eyes. A little faint
colour fluttered over her cheeks and throat.
She slowly withdrew her hand, and
motioned him to a seat. She was keenly alive
to his speechless admiration, and it revived
her like a cordial. She had been feeling
languor and the reaction of intense excitement,
like a runner who drops the moment
after he has reached the goal.

"What is it?" she asked again. "You
asked for Sir John. He is not visible. Is
it anything important that has brought you
here so early?"