He smiled, resting his hand on the Marchese's shoulder with easy familiarity.
"See where she stands!" he continued,--and they both looked towards the beautiful flower-bordered terrace at the verge of the gardens overhanging the sea where for the moment Morgana stood alone, a small white figure bathed in the deep rose afterglow of the sunken sun--"Like a pearl dropped in a cup of red wine!--ready to dissolve and disappear!"
His voice had a strange thrill in it, and Giulio looked at him curiously.
"You admire her very much, my father!" he said, with a touch of delicate irony in his tone.
"I do, my son!" responded Aloysius, composedly, "But only as a poor priest may--at a distance!"
The Marchese glanced at him again quickly,--almost suspiciously--and seemed about to say something further, but checked himself,--and the two walked on to join their hostess, side by side together.