trifling gift of a side-box at Don
Tartaglia's entertainment this evening?"

Vexed at his credulity, Odo tossed the invitation to Cantapresto; but a
moment later, recalling the glance of the pretty girl in the
market-place, he began to wonder if the billet might not be the prelude
to a sufficiently diverting adventure. It at least offered a way of
passing the evening; and after a hurried supper he set out with
Cantapresto for the Philodramatic Academy. It was late when they entered
their box, and several masks were already capering before the
footlights, exchanging lazzi with the townsfolk in the pit, and
addressing burlesque compliments to the quality in the boxes. The
theatre seemed small and shabby after those of Turin, and there was
little in the old-fashioned fopperies of a provincial audience to
interest a young gentleman fresh from the capital. Odo looked about for
any one resembling the masked beauty of the market-place; but he beheld
only ill-dressed dowagers and matrons, or ladies of the town more
conspicuous for their effrontery than for their charms.

The main diversion of the evening was by this begun. It was a comedy in
the style of Goldoni's early pieces, representing the actual life of the
day, but interspersed with the antics of the masks, to whose improvised
drolleries the people still clung. A terrific Don Spavento in cloak and
sword played the jealous English nobleman, Milord Zambo, and the part of
Tartaglia was taken by the manager, one of the best-known interpreters
of the character in Italy. Tartaglia was the guardian of the prima
amorosa, whom the enamoured Briton pursued; and in the Columbine, when
she sprang upon the stage with a pirouette that showed her slender
ankles and embroidered clocks, Odo instantly recognised the graceful
figure and killing glance of his masked beauty. Her face, which was now
uncovered, more than fulfilled the promise of her eyes, being indeed as
arch and engaging a countenance as ever flashed distraction across the
foot-lights. She was greeted with an outburst of delight that cost her a
sour glance from the prima amorosa, and presently the theatre was
ringing with her improvised sallies, uttered in the gay staccato of the
Venetian dialect. There was to Odo something perplexingly familiar in
this accent and in the light darting movements of her little head framed
in a Columbine's ruff, with a red rose thrust behind one ear; but after
a rapid glance about the house she