quarrelled.'

'About Giorgio perhaps?' returned another lady laughing.

'So they say. The story began this summer at Lucerne--'

'But Laura was not at Lucerne,'

'Exactly--but her husband was--'

'I believe it is a pure invention,' broke in the Florentine countess
Donna Bianca Dolcebuono--'Giorgio is in Paris now.'

Andrea heard it all in spite of the chattering of the little Contessa
Starnina, who sat at his right hand, and never gave him a moment's
peace. Bianca Dolcebuono's words did little to ease the smart of his
wound. At least, he would have liked to know the whole story. But the
Duchess Angelieri did not resume the thread of her discourse, and other
conversations crossed and recrossed the table under the great gorgeous
roses from the Villa Pamfili.

Who was this Giorgio? A former lover? Elena had spent part of the summer
at Lucerne,--she had just come from Paris. After the sale she had
refused to go to Laura Miano's. A fierce desire assailed him to see her,
to speak to her again. The invitation at the Palazzo Farnese was for ten
o'clock--half past ten found him there waiting anxiously.

He waited long. The rooms filled rapidly; the dancing began. In the
Carracci gallery the divinities of fashionable Rome vied in beauty with
the Ariadnes, the Galateas, the Auroras, the Dianas of the frescos;
couples whirled past; heads glittering with jewels drooped or raised
themselves, bosoms panted, the breath came fast through parted crimson
lips.

'You are not dancing, Sperelli?' asked Gabriella Barbarisi, a girl brown
as the _oliva speciosa_, as she passed him on the arm of her partner,
fanning herself and smiling to show a dimple she had at the corner of
her mouth.

'Yes--later on,' Andrea responded hastily--'later on.'

Heedless of introductions or greetings, his torment increased with every
moment of this fruitless expectation, and he roamed aimlessly from room
to room. That 'perhaps' made him sadly afraid that Elena would not come.
And supposing she really did not? When was he likely to see her again?
Donna Bianca Dolcebuono passed, and, almost without knowing why, he
attached himself to her side, saying a thousand agreeable things to her,
feeling some slight comfort in her society. He had the greatest desire
to speak to her about Elena, to question her, to reassure himself; but
the orchestra struck up a languorous mazurka and the Florentine countess
was carried off by her partner.

Thereupon, Andrea jo