self
would marshal the dances.

The double orchestra now play as if they were trying to drown each
other. Half a dozen rooms are full of dancers. The matrons, and older
men, have subsided into whist up-stairs. All the ladies have found
partners; there is not a single wall-flower.

Nothing could exceed the stately propriety of the ball. It was a grand
and stately gathering. Nobody but Nera Boccarini was natural. "To
save appearances" is the social law. "Do what you like, but save
appearances." A dignified hypocrisy none disobey. These men and women,
with the historic names, dare not show each other what they are. There
was no flirting, no romping, no loud laughter; not a loud word--no
telltale glances, no sitting in corners. It was a pose throughout. Men
bowed ceremoniously, and addressed as strangers ladies with whom they
spent every evening. Husbands devoted themselves to wives whom they
never saw but in public. Innocence _may_ betray itself, _seems_ to
betray itself--guilt never. Guilt is cautious.

At this moment Count Nobili entered. He was received with lofty
courtesy by the countess. Her manner implied a gentle protest. Count
Nobili was a banker's son; his mother was not--_nee_--any thing. Still
he was welcome. She graciously bent her head, on which a tiara of
diamonds glittered--in acknowledgment of his compliments on the
brilliancy of her ball.

Nobili's address was frank and manly. There was an ease and freedom
about him that contrasted favorably with the effeminate appearance
and affected manners of the _jeunesse doree_. His voice, too, was a
pleasant voice, and gave a value to all he said. A sunny smile lighted
up his fair-complexioned face, the face old Carlotta had called
"lucky."

"You are very late," the countess had said, with the slightest tone
of annoyance in her voice--fanning herself languidly as she spoke. "My
son has been looking for you."

"It has been my loss, Signora Contessa," replied Nobili, bowing.
"Pardon me. I was delayed. With your permission, I will find your
son." He bowed again, then walked on into the dancing-rooms beyond.

Nobili had come late. "Why should he go at all?" he had asked himself,
sighing, as he sat at home, smoking a solitary cigar. "What was the
Orsetti ball, or any other ball, to him, when Enrica was not there?"

Nevertheless, he did dress, and he did go, telling himself, however,
that he was simply fulfilling a social duty by so doing. Now that he
is here, s