s of her beauty, her gracefulness, the charms of her
demeanor, and the brilliancy of her diamonds, abounded. Her admirers
were of all ages, from those who worshipped her loveliness to that
not less enthusiastic section who swore by her cook; and it was indeed
"great tidings" to hear that she had returned.

Some statistician has asserted that no less than a hundred thousand
people awake every day in London, not one of whom knows where he
will pass the night. Now, Florence is but a small city, and the
lacquered-boot class bear but a slight proportion to the shoeless herd
of humanity. Yet there is a very tolerable sprinkling of well-dressed,
well-got-up individuals, who daily arise without the very vaguest
conception of who is to house them, fire them, light them, and cigar
them for the evening. They are an interesting class, and have this
strong appeal to human sympathy, that not one of them, by any possible
effort, could contribute to his own support.

They toil not, neither do they spin. They have the very fewest of social
qualities; they possess no conversational gifts; they are not even
moderately good reporters of the passing events of the day. And yet,
strange to say, the world they live in seems to have some need of them.
Are they the last relics of a once gifted class,--worn out, effete, and
exhausted,--degenerated like modern Greeks from those who once shook
the Parthenon? Or are they what anatomists call "rudimentary
structures,"--the first abortive attempts of nature to fashion something
profitable and good? Who knows?

Amidst this class the Nina's arrival was announced as the happiest of
all tidings; and speculation immediately set to work to imagine who
would be the favorites of the house; what would be its habits and hours;
would she again enter the great world of society, or would she, as her
quiet, unannounced arrival portended, seek a less conspicuous position?
Nor was this the mere talk of the cafes and the Cascine. The _salons_
were eagerly discussing the very same theme.

In certain social conditions a degree of astuteness is acquired as to
who may and who may not be visited, that, in its tortuous intricacy of
reasons, would puzzle the craftiest head that ever wagged in Equity.
Not that the code is a severe one; it is exactly in its lenity lies
its difficulty,--so much may be done, but so little may be fatal! The
Countess in the present case enjoyed what in England is reckoned a great
privilege,--s