to capture the fancy of an Italian girl.

"The seedy swell of Naples or Rome--he is irresistible to the Italian
girl," she said, on one occasion. "You know him; his shirt open at the
neck down almost to his chest--his trousers tight at the knee and
enormously wide at the foot--a poncho-looking kind of cloak, with a
greasy Astrachan collar--a tall French hat, rather shabby--a face the
color of paste--an odor of cigarettes and garlic--dirty hands--and a
cane. I suppose the theatre is too expensive, so he goes to the public
gardens, and strolls up and down, and takes off his hat with a sweep to
people he pretends to recognize; or perhaps he sits in front of a
_cafe_, with a glass of cheap brandy before him, an evening journal in
his hands, and a toothpick in his mouth."

"You seem to have made his very particular acquaintance," said he, with
a touch of scorn. "Did he give you his arm when you were walking
together in the public gardens?"

"Give _me_ his arm?" she exclaimed. "I would not allow such a creature
to come within twenty yards of me! I prefer people who use soap."

"What a pity it is they can't invent soap for purifying the mind!" he
said, venomously; and he went out, and spoke no more to her during the
rest of that evening.

Matters went from bad to worse: for Miss Burgoyne, finding nothing else
that could account for his habitual depression of spirits, his
occasional irritability and obvious indifference towards herself, made
bold to assume that he was secretly, even if unconsciously, fretting
over Nina's absence; and her jealousy grew more and more angry and
vindictive, until it carried her beyond all bounds. For now she began to
say disparaging or malicious things about Miss Ross, and that without
subterfuge. At last there came a climax.

She had sent for him (for he did not invariably go into her room before
the beginning of the last act, as once he had done), and, as she was
still in the inner apartment, he took a chair, and stretched out his
legs, and flicked a spot or two of dust from his silver-buckled shoes.

"What hour did you get home _this_ morning?" she called to him, in
rather a saucy tone.

"I don't know exactly."

"And don't care. You are leading a pretty life," she went on, rather
indiscreetly, for Jane was with her. "Distraction! Distraction from
what? You sit up all night; you eat supper at all hours of the morning;
you get dyspepsia and indigestion; and of course you become
low-spir