Quinto Lalli had been sent to enjoy himself at the Cafe, with
stringent directions not to return before he should have ascertained
that the Marchese had left the house, let the hour be as late as it
might.
Bianca meditated deeply, while she waited her lover's coming.
Her lover! yes, there was no doubt about that. Bianca had felt
perfectly assured that she was justified in considering the Marchese
as such on that first morning, when he had come to her an hour in
advance of the time appointed for his visit in company with the
impresario. But it was high time that some better understanding of
the footing on which they stood as regarded each other should be
arrived at.
Hitherto no direct proposals of any kind had been made to her by the
Marchese. He was not good at any such work. Any one of those
distinguished sons of paternal governments, who had constituted the
material of Bianca's experiences of that division of mankind, would
have long since said what he wanted, and have very clearly indicated
the terms on which he was willing to become the fortunate possessor
of the coveted article. And Bianca would have perfectly well known
how, under the present circumstances, to answer any such proposals,
as she had known under the other circumstances of past days. But the
Marchese made no proposals.
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