our of asking you for a
quadrille, madam," answered Astrardente with a polite smile; and so
saying, he turned and presented the little tiger to his wife with a
courtly bow. There was good blood in the old _roue_.

Corona was touched by his thoughtfulness in wishing to get her the little
keepsake of the dance, and she was still more affected by his ready
defence of her. He was indeed sometimes a little ridiculous, with his
paint and his artificial smile--he was often petulant and unreasonable
in little things; but he was never unkind to her, nor discourteous. In
spite of her cold and indifferent stare at Donna Tullia, she had keenly
felt the insult, and she was grateful to the old man for taking her part.
Knowing what she knew of herself that night, she was deeply sensible to
his kindness. She took the little gift, and laid her hand upon his arm.

"Forgive me," she said, as they moved away, "if I am ever ungrateful to
you. You are so very good to me. I know no one so courteous and kind as
you are."

Her husband looked at her in delight. He loved her sincerely with all
that remained of him. There was something sad in the thought of a man
like him finding the only real passion of his life when worn out with age
and dissipation. Her little speech raised him to the seventh heaven of
joy.

"I am the happiest man in all Rome," he said, assuming his most jaunty
walk, and swinging his hat gaily between his thumb and finger. But a
current of deep thought was stirring in him as he went down the broad,
staircase by his wife's side. He was thinking what life might have been
to him had he found Corona del Carmine--how could he? she was not born
then--had he found her, or her counterpart, thirty years ago. He was
wondering what conceivable sacrifice there could be which he would not
make to regain his youth--even to have his life lived out and behind him,
if he could only have looked back to thirty years of marriage with
Corona. How differently he would have lived, how very differently he
would have thought! how his whole memory would be full of the sweet past,
and would be common with her own past life, which, to her too, would be
sweet to ponder on! He would have been such a good man--so true to her
in all those years! But they were gone, and he had not found her until
his foot was on the edge of the grave--until he could hardly count on one
year more of a pitiful artificial life, painted, bewigged, stuffed to the
semblance of a