ined a group of young men near one of the
doors--Ludovico Barbarisi, the Duke di Beffi, Filippo del Gallo and Gino
Bomminaco. They were watching the couples, and exchanging observations
not over refined in quality. One of them turned to Andrea as he came up.

'Why, what has become of you this evening? Your cousin was looking for
you a moment ago. There she is dancing with my brother now.'

'Look!' exclaimed Filippo del Gallo--'the Albonico has come back, she is
dancing with Giannetto.'

'The Duchess of Scerni came back last week,' said Ludovico; 'what a
lovely creature!'

'Is she here?'

'I have not seen her yet,'

Andrea's heart stopped beating for a moment, fearing that something
would be said against her by one or other of these malicious tongues.
But the passing of the Princess Isse on the arm of the Danish Minister
diverted their attention. Nevertheless, his desire for further knowledge
was so intense, that it almost drove him to lead back the conversation
to the name of his lady-love. But he was not quite bold enough. The
mazurka was over; the group broke up. 'She is not coming! She is not
coming!' His secret anxiety rose to such a pitch that he half thought of
leaving the place altogether; the contact of this laughing, careless
throng was intolerable.

As he turned away, he saw the Duchess of Scerni entering the gallery on
the arm of the French ambassador. For one instant their eyes met, but
that one glance seemed to draw them to each other, to penetrate to the
very depths of their souls. Both knew that each had only been looking
for the other, and at that moment there seemed to fall a silence upon
both hearts, even in the midst of the babel of voices, and all their
surroundings to vanish and be swept away by the force of their own
absorbing thought.

She advanced along the frescoed gallery where the crowd was thinnest,
her long white train rippling like a wave over the floor behind her. All
white and simple, she passed slowly along, turning from side to side in
answer to the numerous greetings, with an air of manifest fatigue and a
somewhat strained smile which drew down the corners of her mouth, while
her eyes looked larger than ever under the low white brow, her extreme
pallor imparting to her whole face a look so ethereal and delicate as to
be almost ghostly. This was not the same woman who had sat beside him at
the Ateleta's table, nor the one of the Sale Rooms, nor the one standing
waiting for a m