oak.'

He took her cloak from the attendant, and in helping her to put it on,
touched her shoulder with the tips of his fingers, and felt her shiver.
The words of one of Schumann's songs was borne to them on Mary Dyce's
passionate soprano, _Ich kann's nicht fassen, nicht glauben!_

They descended the stairs in silence. A footman preceded them to call
the duchess's carriage. The stamping of the horses rang through the
echoing portico. At every step, Andrea felt the pressure of Elena's arm
grow heavier; she held her head high, and her eyes were half closed.

'As you ascended these stairs, my admiration followed you, unknown to
you. Now, as you come down, my love accompanies you,' he said softly,
almost humbly, faltering a little between the two last words.

She made no reply, but she lifted the bunch of violets to her face, and
inhaled the perfume. In so doing, the wide sleeve of her evening cloak
slipped back over her arm beyond her elbow, thrilling the young man's
senses almost beyond control. His lips trembled, and he with difficulty
restrained the burning words that rose to them.

The carriage was standing at the foot of the great stairway; a footman
held open the door.

'To Madame Van Hueffel's,' said the duchess to him, while Andrea helped
her in.

The man left the door and returned to his seat beside the coachman. The
horses stamped, striking out sparks from the stones.

'Take care!' cried Elena, holding out her hand to the young man. Her
eyes and her diamonds flashed through the gloom.

'Oh, to be in there with her in the shadow--to press my lips to her
satin neck under the perfumed fur of her mantle!'

'Take me with you!' he would like to have cried.

But the horses plunged. 'Oh, take care!' Elena repeated.

He kissed her hand--pressing his lips to it as if to leave the mark of
his burning passion. He closed the door and the carriage rolled rapidly
away under the porch, and out to the Forum.

And thus ended Andrea Sperelli's first meeting with the Duchess of
Scerni.

CHAPTER II

The gray deluge of democratic mud, which swallows up so many beautiful
and rare things, is likewise gradually engulfing that particular class
of the old Italian nobility in which from generation to generation were
kept alive certain family traditions of eminent culture, refinement and
art.

To this class, which I should be inclined to denominate Arcadian because
it shone with greatest splendour in the charming