sit to some relatives. He
is, as I have said, decidedly horsey, and is much looked up to by the
"golden youths," his companions, in consequence. As a gentleman rider
at races and steeple-chases, as a hunter on the Roman Campagna, and
the driver of a "stage" on the Corso, Ruspoli is unrivaled. He breeds
racers, and he has an English stud-groom, who has taught him to speak
English with a drawl, enlivened by stable-slang. He is slim, fair, and
singularly awkward, and of a uniform pale yellow--yellow complexion,
yellow hair, and yellow eyebrows. Poole's clothes never fit him, and
he walks, as he dances, with his legs far apart, as if a horse
were under him. He carries a hunting-whip in his hand spite of the
month--October (these little anomalies are undetected in New Italy,
where there is so much to learn). Prince Ruspoli swings round this
whip as he mounts the steps of the club. The others, who are watching
his approach, are secretly devoured with envy.

"Wall, Pietrino--wall, Beppo," said Ruspoli, shaking hands with
Orsetti and Malatesta, and nodding to Orazio, out of whose sails he
took the wind by force of stolid indifference (Baldassare he ignored,
or mistook him for a waiter, if he saw him at all), "you are all
discussing the news, of course. Lucca's lively to-day. You'll all
do in time, even to steeple-chases. We must run one down on the low
grounds in the spring. Dick, my English groom, is always plaguing me
about it."

Then Prince Ruspoli pulled himself together with a jerk, as a man does
stiff from the saddle, laid his hunting-whip upon a table, stuffed his
hands into his pockets, and looked round.

"What news have you heard?" asked Beppo Malatesta. "There's such a
lot."

"Wall, the news I have heard is, that Count Nobili is engaged to marry
the Marchesa Guinigi's little niece. Dear little thing, they say--like
an English '_mees_'--fair, with red hair."

"Is that your style of beauty?" lisped Orazio, looking hard at him.
But Ruspoli did not notice him.

"But that's not half," cried Malatesta. "You are an innocent, Ruspoli.
Let me baptize you with scandal."

"Don't, don't, I hate scandal," said Ruspoli, taking one of his hands
out of his pocket for a moment, and holding it up in remonstrance.
"There is nothing but scandal in these small Italian towns. Take to
hunting, that's the cure. Nobili is to marry the little girl, that's
certain. He's to pay off all the marchesa's debts, that's certain too.
He's ric