of club life, the world's doings in dinners, divorces, and duels,
were all revealed and discussed, amidst the most profuse gratitude
to the Countess for coming back again to that society which scarcely
survived her desertion.

They were not, it is but fair to say, all that the Princess Sabloukoff
had depicted them; but there was still a very fair sprinkling of witty,
pleasant talkers. The ease of admission permitted any former intimate
to present his friend, and thus at once, on the very first night of
receiving, the Countess saw her _salons_ crowded. They smoked, and
sang, and laughed, and played ecarte, and told good stories. They drew
caricatures, imitated well-known actors, and even preachers, talking
away with a volubility that left few listeners; and then there was a
supper laid out on a table too small to accommodate even by standing,
so that each carried away his plate, and bivouacked with others of his
friends, here and there, through the rooms.

All was contrived to impart a sense of independence and freedom; all,
to convey an impression of "license" special to the place, that made the
most rigid unbend, and relaxed the gravity of many who seldom laughed.

As in certain chemical compounds a mere drop of some one powerful
ingredient will change the whole property of the mass, eliciting new
elements, correcting this, developing that, and, even to the eye,
announcing by altered color the wondrous change accomplished, so here
the element of womanhood, infinitely small in proportion as it was,
imparted a tone and a refinement to this orgie which, without it, had
degenerated into coarseness. The Countess's beautiful niece, Ida Delia
Torre, was also there, singing at times with all an artist's excellence
the triumphs of operatic music; at others, warbling over those
"canzonettes" which to Italian ears embody all that they know of love
of country. How could such a reception be other than successful; or
how could the guests, as they poured forth into the silent street at
daybreak, do aught but exult that such a house was added to the haunts
of Florence,--so lovely a group had returned to adorn their fair city?

In a burst of this enthusiastic gratitude they sang a serenade before
they separated; and then, as the closed curtains showed them that the
inmates had left the windows, they uttered the last "felice Notte," and
departed.

"And so Wahnsdorf never made his appearance?" said the Princess, as she
was once more