tention to your personal appearance! Have recourse to art
where nature has been unkind. Put a little paint on those cheeks, which
look so pale with spleen. Poor creature! Your puny face will never find
a bidder.

LEONORA (in a lively manner to ARABELLA). Congratulate me, girl. It is
impossible I can have lost my Fiesco; or, if I have, the loss must be but
trifling. (The chocolate is brought, ARABELLA pours it out.)

JULIA. Do you talk of losing Fiesco? Good God! How could you ever
conceive the ambitious idea of possessing him? Why, my child, aspire to
such a height? A height where you cannot but be seen, and must come into
comparison with others. Indeed, my dear, he was a knave or a fool who
joined you with FIESCO. (Taking her hand with a look of compassion.)
Poor soul! The man who is received in the assemblies of fashionable life
could never be a suitable match for you. (She takes a dish of
chocolate.)

LEONORA (smiling at ARABELLA). If he were, he would not wish to mix with
such assemblies.

JULIA. The Count is handsome, fashionable, elegant. He is so fortunate
as to have formed connections with people of rank. He is lively and
high-spirited. Now, when he severs himself from these circles of
elegance and refinement, and returns home warm with their impressions,
what does he meet? His wife receives him with a commonplace tenderness;
damps his fire with an insipid, chilling kiss, and measures out her
attentions to him with a niggardly economy. Poor husband! Here, a
blooming beauty smiles upon him--there he is nauseated by a peevish
sensibility. Signora, signora, for God's sake consider, if he have not
lost his understanding, which will he choose?

LEONORA (offering her a cup of chocolate). You, madam--if he have
lost it.

JULIA. Good! This sting shall return into your own bosom. Tremble for
your mockery! But before you tremble--blush!

LEONORA. Do you then know what it is to blush, signora? But why not?
'Tis a toilet trick.

JULIA. Oh, see! This poor creature must be provoked if one would draw
from her a spark of wit. Well--let it pass this time. Madam, you were
bitter. Give me your hand in token of reconciliation.

LEONORA (offering her hand with a significant look). Countess, my anger
ne'er shall trouble you.

JULIA (offering her hand). Generous, indeed! Yet may I not be so, too?
(Maliciously.) Countess, do you not think I must love that person whose
image I bear constantly about me?

LEONORA (blushing