aney resolutely declined to take part. So far
from aiding with her presence this daily display of the fashion,
beauty, and elegance of the town, she had devised a plan to throw it
into disorder and confusion.

At sunset, when the carriages of the fashionable world were turning
homewards, she would drive out, with two unusually small Corsican
ponies, which she had purchased that summer; and handling the reins
herself, as she always did, she would pass through the streets of the
town at a trot. She would choose the moment when the Corso was lighted
up, and when the evening assembly was in full swing. On all sides
friends and family groups were meeting; young men and maidens were
exchanging stolen greetings; silent salutations were passing between
wealthy patrons and their hangers-on; lovers, whose mistresses were
absent, sighed their woes into the ears of confidants; officers tossed
curt nods to their creditors, and high officials were receiving
obsequious bows from their subordinates, anxiously hoping for the time
when death would give them a chance of promotion. And then--before the
young ladies had had time to exhibit their latest Paris gowns in the
course of one turn up and one down the promenade, and just as admiring
young clerks were opening the conversation with their charmers, while
officers were collecting in groups to criticise faces and figures, and
the more distinguished members of the local aristocracy were preparing
to hold their customary little court--just then our arrogant young
damsel, with her stiff, elderly companion sitting by her side, would
dash into the very midst of the well-dressed crowd. The two ponies were
kept at a smart trot; and officers and young ladies, gentlemen and
shop-assistants, family parties and whispering couples, had to separate
in all haste, to avoid being driven over. A set of bells on the harness
gave warning of the approach of the equipage before it was actually
upon the saunterers, so that the police had no ground for interference.
But this only intensified the irritation of those whom Theresa
offended, first by declining to join their social circle, and secondly
by breaking into it in this violent fashion.

On two evenings Giuseppe Mansana had gone to the Corso, and both times
he had almost been run over by this reckless charioteer. He was fairly
astounded by her audacity, and promptly ascertained who she was. On the
third evening, as Theresa Leaney halted her horses at the