and pushed back the boughs of the pomegranate tree. This
retailing of her private sorrows for purposes of small-talk was almost
unbearable to her, and there was visible annoyance in her face as she
stepped into the light.

"Ah! here she is!" exclaimed the hostess, with admirable coolness.
"Gemma, dear, I was wondering where you could have disappeared to.
Signor Felice Rivarez wishes to make your acquaintance."

"So it's the Gadfly," thought Gemma, looking at him with some curiosity.
He bowed to her decorously enough, but his eyes glanced over her
face and figure with a look which seemed to her insolently keen and
inquisitorial.

"You have found a d-d-delightful little nook here," he remarked, looking
at the thick screen; "and w-w-what a charming view!"

"Yes; it's a pretty corner. I came out here to get some air."

"It seems almost ungrateful to the good God to stay indoors on such a
lovely night," said the hostess, raising her eyes to the stars. (She had
good eyelashes and liked to show them.) "Look, signore! Would not our
sweet Italy be heaven on earth if only she were free? To think that she
should be a bond-slave, with such flowers and such skies!"

"And such patriotic women!" the Gadfly murmured in his soft, languid
drawl.

Gemma glanced round at him in some trepidation; his impudence was too
glaring, surely, to deceive anyone. But she had underrated Signora
Grassini's appetite for compliments; the poor woman cast down her lashes
with a sigh.

"Ah, signore, it is so little that a woman can do! Perhaps some day I
may prove my right to the name of an Italian--who knows? And now I must
go back to my social duties; the French ambassador has begged me to
introduce his ward to all the notabilities; you must come in presently
and see her. She is a most charming girl. Gemma, dear, I brought Signor
Rivarez out to show him our beautiful view; I must leave him under your
care. I know you will look after him and introduce him to everyone. Ah!
there is that delightful Russian prince! Have you met him? They say he
is a great favourite of the Emperor Nicholas. He is military commander
of some Polish town with a name that nobody can pronounce. Quelle nuit
magnifique! N'est-ce-pas, mon prince?"

She fluttered away, chattering volubly to a bull-necked man with a heavy
jaw and a coat glittering with orders; and her plaintive dirges for
"notre malheureuse patrie," interpolated with "charmant" and "mon
prince," died away alo