orts to
produce a brilliant result. Madame Boccarini had told her daughters
that they must expect no fresh dresses for six months at least, so
great had been the outlay. Nera, on hearing this, had tossed her
stately head, and had inwardly resolved that before six months she
would marry--and that, dress or no dress, she would go wherever she
had a chance of meeting Count Nobili. Her mother tacitly concurred in
these views, as far as Count Nobili was concerned, but said nothing.

A Belgravian mother who frankly drills her daughter and points out,
_viva voce_, when to advance and when to retreat, and to whom the
honors of war are to be accorded--is an article not yet imported into
classic Italy with the current Anglomania.

Beside Nera sat Prince Ruspoli, a young Roman of great wealth. Ruspoli
aspired to lead the fashion, but not even Poole could well tailor him.
(Ruspoli was called _poule mouillee_.) Nature had not intended it.
His tall, gaunt figure, long arms, and thin legs, rendered him
artistically unavailable. The music has just sounded from a large
saloon at the end of the suite, and Prince Ruspoli has offered his arm
to Nera for the first waltz. If Count Nobili had arrived, she would
have refused Ruspoli, even on the chance of losing the dance; but he
had not come. Her sisters, who are older, and less attractive than
herself, had as yet found no partners; but they were habitually
resigned and amiable, and submitted with perfect meekness to be
obliterated by Nera.

A knot of young men have now formed near the door of the
dancing-saloon. They are eagerly discussing the cotillon, the final
dance of the evening. Count Orsetti had left his mother's side and
joined them.

The cotillon is a matter of grave consideration--the very gravest.
Indeed it was very seldom these young heads considered any thing
so grave. On the success of the cotillon depends the success of the
evening. All the "presents" had come from Paris. Some of the figures
were new and required consultation.

"I mean to dance with Teresa Ottolini," announced Count Orsetti,
timidly--he could not name Teresa without reddening. "We arranged it
together a month ago."

"And I am engaged to Countess Navascoes," said Count Malatesta.

This engagement was said to have begun some years back, and to be very
enthralling. No one objected, least of all the husband, who worshiped
at the shrine of the blooming Bernardini when she quarreled with
Civilla. A lady of