rotation, thus sustaining the impression that his hair was cut from time
to time. In his eye a single eyeglass was adjusted, and as he walked he
swung his hat delicately in his tightly gloved fingers. He wore the
plainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs; no chain dangled
showily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small feet were encased in
little patent-leather shoes. But for his painted face, he might have
passed for the very incarnation of fashionable simplicity. But his face
betrayed him.

As for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Not that any colour or
material she wore could greatly enhance her beauty, for all who saw her
on that memorable night remembered the wonderful light in her face, and
the strange look in her splendid eyes; but the thick soft fall of the
white velvet made as it were a pedestal for her loveliness, and the
Astrardente jewels that clasped her waist and throat and crowned her
black hair, collected the radiance of the many candles, and made the
light cling to her and follow her as she walked. Giovanni saw her enter,
and his whole adoration came upon him as a madness upon a sick man in a
fever, so that he would have sprung forward to meet her, and fallen at
her feet and worshipped her, had he not suddenly felt that he was watched
by more than one of the many who paused to see her go by. He moved from
his place and waited near the door where she would have to pass, and for
a moment his heart stood still.

He hardly knew how it was. He found himself speaking to her. He asked her
for a dance, he asked boldly for the cotillon--he never knew how he had
dared; she assented, let her eyes rest upon him for one moment with an
indescribable expression, then grew very calm and cold, and passed on.

It was all over in an instant. Giovanni moved back to his place as she
went by, and stood still like a man stunned. It was well that there were
yet nearly two hours before the preliminary dancing would be over; he
needed some time to collect himself. The air seemed full of strange
voices, and he watched the moving faces as in a dream, unable to
concentrate his attention upon anything he saw.

"He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis," said a woman's voice
near him. It did not strike him, in his strange bewilderment, that it was
Donna Tullia who had spoken, still less that she was speaking of him
almost to him.

"Something very like it, I should say," answered Del Ferice's oily voice.
"He