game. (Spite of Civilla,
she has many other little games.) Fragments of the train fly about the
room all the evening, and admirers take care that she shall see
these picked up, fervently kissed, and stowed away as relics in
breast-pockets. One enthusiast pinned his fragment to his shoulder,
like an order--a knight of San Luisa, he called himself.

Teresa Ottolini, with her mother, has just arrived. Being single,
Teresa either is, or affects to be, excessively steady; no one would
marry her if she were not--not even the good-natured Orsetti. Your
Italian husband _in futuro_ will pardon nothing in his wife that
may be--not even that her dress should be conspicuous, much less
her manners. Neither is it expedient that she should be seen much
in society. That dangerous phalanx of "golden youth" are ever on the
watch, "gentlemen sportsmen," to a man; their sport, woman. If she
goes out much these "golden youth" might compromise her. Less than
a breath upon a maiden's name is social death. That name must not be
coupled with any man's--not coupled even in lightest parlance. So the
lady waits, waits until she has a husband--it is more piquant to be
a naughty wife than a fast miss--then she makes her choice--one, or
a dozen--it is a matter of taste. Danger is added to vice; and that
element of intrigue dear to the Italian soul, both male and female.
The _jeunesse doree_ delight in mild danger--a duel with swords,
not pistols, with a foolish husband. Why cannot he grin and bear
it?--others do.

But to return to Teresa. She is courtesying very low to the Countess
Orsetti. Although it is well known that these ladies hate each other,
Countess Orsetti receives Teresa with a special welcome, kisses her
on both cheeks, addresses more compliments to her, and makes her more
courtesies than to any one else. How beautiful she is, the Ottolini,
with those white flowers twisted into the braids of her chestnut
hair!--those large, lazy eyes, too--like sleeping volcanoes!--Count
Orsetti thinks her beautiful, clearly; for, under the full battery of
his mother's glances, he advances to meet her, blushing like a girl.
He presses Teresa's hand, and whispers in her ear that "she must
not forget her promise about the cotillon. He has lived upon it ever
since." Her reply has apparently satisfied him, for the honest fellow
breaks out all over into smiles and bows and amorous glances. Then
she passes on, the fair Teresa, like a queen, followed by look