most flowery Italian, to
consent to the Nile voyage, as the Countess di Moccoli would also go
in that case. Mrs. Denvil laughed her carefully acquired little laugh
of studied indifference, and glanced at herself in the mirror. She
was not too old to be admired, although her daughter was fifteen.
The dream of Alfredo, Count Martellini, was to make a Nile voyage
in her company. People would talk, of course. People always talk
scandal about somebody. The pretty woman, with her insatiable vanity,
was already drifting on a rapid current from which there was no
escape. Well, she was not alone. All the gay ladies and men of her
acquaintance were also afloat on the same perilous stream. By and by
they would reach the Niagara brink; then, with a dash and a plunge,
all would be over. The end? They would have lived, drained the goblet,
and flung it away. When it is fashionable to exaggerate sentiment
in every phase, women of Mrs. Denvil's type, fond of luxury and
extravagance, intoxicated with dissipation in foreign cities, do not
place themselves in the rear ranks.

She tore the note into bits, and smiled again in the mirror. A pale
light passed over the glass surface, blue and ghostly; the reflected
face grew haggard; patches of rouge stood out on the cheeks; dark
shadows gathered beneath the eyes; even the careful coiffure was
dishevelled; a stain of wine was visible on the satin gown; powder
became glaringly apparent on the dimpled shoulder. The enemy was dawn
of a day destined to mark the crisis in Augusta Denvil's life. She
shrank from it, without knowing why, and drew the heavy curtains.

Five o'clock on the Pincian Hill, with the setting sun casting its
ruddy rays over the city spires and roofs. The band was playing, the
carriages wending slowly up the drive, the children darting about the
flower beds, where the fountain sparkled. Mrs. Denvil's maroon
liveries and spirited horses had already made the circuit, the lady in
pale turquoise blue betraying none of the fatigue of dawn, and
receiving complacently that homage of admiration which Italy never
fails to bestow on an attractive woman in a fine equipage. The
Countess di Moccoli had left her own phaeton for a seat beside Mrs.
Denvil--an attention the most gratifying in public--to discuss the
Nile voyage. Also the Count Martellini, in faultless attire, a jasmine
blossom in his buttonhole, and yellow gloves, having assisted at this
exchange, had consented to take a seat o