stes, was well versed in the insolent art of feigning deafness.

The little man did not dare to answer, neither did he dare to sit down.

"Courage, Signor Viscontini!" said Paolin, who stood near him. "What are
you doing here?"

"He is filling a gap!" muttered the prefect. In fact, the excellent
Signor Viscontini, by trade a tuner of pianos, had that morning come
from Lugano to tune the Zelbis' piano at Cima, and Don Franco's also,
and at one o'clock he had dined at Casa Zelbi. Then he had come to Villa
Maironi, and was now called upon to act as substitute for Signor
Giacomo, because, without him, the company would have numbered thirteen.

A brown liquid was smoking in the silver soup-tureen.

"It is not risotto!" Pasotti whispered to Puria, passing behind him. But
the big, mild face gave no sign of having heard.

The Casa Maironi dinners were always lugubrious affairs, and this one
promised to be more than usually so. But as a compensation, it was much
finer than usual. While they were eating, Pasotti and Puria often
exchanged glances of admiration, as if congratulating one another on
the exquisite delight they were enjoying; and if ever Puria failed to
catch one of Pasotti's glances, Signora Barborin, seated beside him,
would apprise him of it by a timid touch of her elbow.

The voices which predominated were those of the Marchesa and Donna
Eugenia. Bianchi's large aristocratic nose, and his shrewd but gallant
and courteous smile were often turned towards the lady's beauty, which
though already fading, had not, as yet, departed. Both belonged to
Milanese families of the best blood, and were united by a certain sense
of superiority, not only over the other middle-class guests, but over
their hosts as well, whose nobility was only provincial. The Marchese
was affability itself, and would have conversed amiably with the
humblest of his fellow-guests, but Donna Eugenia, in the bitterness of
her soul, in her disgust for the place and the persons, attached herself
to him as to the only one worthy of her attention, markedly singling him
out, in order, also, to offend the others. She embarrassed him by
remarking in a loud tone that she did not see how he could ever have
taken a fancy to this odious Valsolda. The Marchese, who for many years
had led a life of quiet and retirement in this region, where, moreover,
the birth of his only daughter, Donna Ester, had taken place, was,
first, greatly disconcerted, for this remar