e his elder ridiculous.

Marescotti, greatly alarmed, started forward and offered his arm, in
order to lead the cavaliere back to his seat, but Trenta indignantly
refused his assistance. The marchesa shook her head.

"Calm yourself," she said, looking at him compassionately. "Calm
yourself, Cesarino, I should not like you to have a fit in my house."

"Fit!--che che?" cried Trenta, angrily. "Not while I am in the
presence of the young and fair," he added, recovering himself. "It is
that which has kept me alive all this time. No, marchesa, I refuse
to sit down again. I refuse to sit down, or to take a hand at your
rubber, until something is settled."

This was addressed to the marchesa, who had caught him by the tails of
his immaculate blue coat and forced him into a seat beside her.

"_Vive la bagatelle_! Where shall we go? You cannot refuse the count,"
he added, giving the marchesa a meaning look. "What shall we do? Let
us all propose something. Let me see. I propose to improve Enrica's
mind. She is young--the young have need of improvement. I propose to
take her to the church of San Frediano and to show her the ancient
fresco representing the discovery of the Holy Countenance; also
the Trenta chapel, containing the tombs of my family. I will try to
explain to her their names and history.--What do you say to this, my
child?"

And the cavaliere turned to Enrica, who, little accustomed to be
noticed at all, much less to occupy the whole conversation, looked
supplicatingly at her aunt. She would gladly have run out of the room
if she had dared.

"No, no," exclaimed the irrepressible Baldassare, from the corner.
"Never! What a ghastly idea! Tombs and a mouldy old church! You may
find satisfaction, Signore Trenta, in the contemplation of your tomb,
but the signorina is not eighty, nor am I, nor is the count. I propose
that after being shut up so many years the Guinigi Palace be thrown
open, and a ball given on the first floor in honor of the signorina.
There should be a band from Florence and presents from Paris for the
cotillon. What do you say to _that_, Signora Marchesa?" asked the
misguided young man, with unconscious self-satisfaction.

If a mine had sprung under the marchesa's feet, she could not have
been more horrified. What she would have said to Baldassare is
difficult to guess, but fortunately for him, while she was struggling
for words in which she could suitably express her sense of his
presumption, Tr