rd Heathfield entertained his
'young friend' by boring him to extinction with questions as to the
coming sales and giving him minute details of a very rare edition of the
_Metamorphoses_ of Apuleius--Roma, 1469--in folio, which he had acquired
a day or two ago for fifteen hundred and twenty lire. He broke off every
now and then to watch Barbarella, and then that gleam of dementia would
flash into his eyes, and his repulsive hands trembled strangely.

Andrea's irritation, disgust, and boredom at last reached such a pitch
that he was unable to conceal his feelings.

'You seem out of spirits, Ugenta,' said the princess.

'Well, a little, perhaps--Miching Mallecho is ill.'

Barbarisi at once overwhelmed him with importunate questions about the
horse's ailments; and then Lord Heathfield recommenced the story of the
_Metamorphoses_ from the beginning.

The Princess turned to her cousin. 'What do you think, Ludovico,' she
said with a laugh, 'yesterday, at the concert, we surprised him in a
flirtation with an Incognita!'

'So we did,' added Elena.

'An Incognita?' exclaimed Ludovico.

'Yes, but perhaps you can give us further information. She is the wife
of the new Minister for Guatemala.'

'Aha--I know.'

'Well?'

'For the moment, I only know the Minister. I see him playing at the Club
every night.'

'Tell me, Ugenta, has she been received at court yet?'

'I really do not know, Princess,' Andrea returned with some impatience.

The whole business had become simply intolerable to him. Elena's gaiety
jarred horribly on him, and her husband's presence was more odious than
ever. But if he was out of temper, it was more with himself than with
the rest of the company. At the root of his irritation lay a dim longing
after the pleasure he had so lately rejected. Hurt and offended by
Elena's indifference, his heart turned with poignant regret to the other
woman, and he pictured her wandering pensive and alone through the
silent avenues, more beautiful, more noble than ever before.

The Princess rose and led the way into an adjoining room. Barbarella ran
to the piano, which was entirely enveloped in an immense antique
caparison of red velvet embroidered with dull gold, and began to sing
Bizet's Tarantelle dedicated to Christine Nilsson. Elena and Eva leaned
over her to read the music, while Ludovico stood behind them smoking a
cigarette. The Prince had disappeared.

But Lord Heathfield kept firm hold of Andrea. He had