s yelled, public and private vehicles crossed the path
of their carriage; all the stir and animation of Roman evening life was
in full swing from the Piazza Colonna to the Piazza di Venezia.

It was ten minutes past eight by the time they reached Doney's. The
other guests were already there. Andrea Sperelli greeted the assembled
company, and taking Clara Green by the hand--

'This,' he said, 'is Miss Clara Green, _ancilla Domini, Sibylla
palmifera, candida puella_.'

'_Ora pro nobis!_' replied Musellaro, Barbarisi, and Grimiti in chorus.

The women laughed though they did not understand. Clara smiled, and
slipping out of her cloak appeared in a white dress, quite simple and
short, with a V-shaped opening back and front, a knot of sea-green
ribbon on her left shoulder, and emeralds in her ears, perfectly
unabashed by the triple scrutiny of Giulia Arici, Bebe Silva and Maria
Fortuna.

Musellaro and Grimiti were old acquaintances; Barbarisi was introduced.

Andrea proceeded--'Mercedes Silva, surnamed Bebe--_chica pero qualsa_.

'Maria Fortuna, a veritable _Fortuna publica_ for our Rome which has the
good fortune to possess her.'

Then, turning to Barbarisi--'Do us the honour to present us to this lady
who is, if I am not mistaken, the divine Giulia Farnese.'

'No--Arici,' Giulia broke in.

'Oh, I beg your pardon, but really, to believe that, I should have to
call upon all my powers of credulity and to consult Pinturicchio in the
Fifth Room.'

He uttered these absurdities with a grave smile, amusing himself by
bewildering and teasing these pretty fools. In the _demi-monde_ he
adopted a manner and style entirely his own, using grotesque phrases,
launching the most ridiculous paradoxes or atrocious impertinences under
cover of the ambiguity of his words; and all this in most original
language, rich in a thousand different flavours, like a Rabelaisian
_olla podrida_ full of strong spices and succulent morsels.

'Pinturicchio,' asked Giulia turning to Barbarisi; 'who's that?'

'Pinturicchio,' exclaimed Andrea, 'oh, a sort of feeble house-painter
who once took it into his head to paint your picture on a door in the
Pope's apartments. Never mind him--he is dead.'

'Dead? How?'

'In a most appalling manner! His wife's lover was a soldier from Perugia
in garrison at Sienna--ask Ludovico--he knows all about it, but has
never liked to tell you, for fear of hurting your feelings. Allow me to
inform you, Bebe, that th