“I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.”
“Nay, ma’am, do guess once.”
“Well, then,” said Emily, with assumed composure, “it is—Count Morano, I suppose.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried Annette, “are you ill, ma’amselle? you are going to faint! let me get some water.”
Emily sunk into a chair. “Stay, Annette,” said she, feebly, “do not leave me—I shall soon be better; open the casement.—The Count, you say—he is come, then?”
“Who, I!—the Count! No, ma’amselle, I did not say so.”
“He is not come then?” said Emily eagerly.
“No, ma’amselle.”
“You are sure of it?”
“Lord bless me!” said Annette, “you recover very suddenly, ma’am! why, I thought you were dying, just now.”
“But the Count—you are sure, is not come?”
“O yes, quite sure of that, ma’amselle. Why, I was looking out through the grate i
