ing the bursts of laughter, other ladies and gentlemen joined the
group in order to share the fun. The news of the approaching contest
spread like lightning and soon assumed the proportions of a society
event.

'Give me your arm and let us take a turn through the rooms,' said Elena
to Andrea Sperelli.

As soon as they were in the west room, away from the noisy crowd,
Andrea pressed her arm and murmured, 'Thanks.'

She leaned on him, stopping now and again to reply to some greeting. She
seemed fatigued, and was as pale as the pearls of her necklace. Each
gentleman addressed her with some hackneyed compliment.

'How stupid they all are! it makes me feel quite ill,' she said.

As they turned, she saw Sakumi was following them noiselessly, her
camellia in his button-hole, his eyes full of yearning not daring to
come nearer. She threw him a compassionate smile.

'Poor Sakumi!'

'Did you not notice him before?' asked Andrea.

'No.'

'While we were sitting by the piano, he was in the recess of the window,
and never took his eyes off your hands when you were playing with the
weapon of his native country--now reduced to being a paper-cutter for a
European novel.'

'Just now, do you mean?'

'Yes, just now. Perhaps he was thinking how sweet it would be to perform
_Hara-Kiri_ with that little scimitar, the chrysanthemums on which
seemed to blossom out of the lacquer and steel under the touch of your
fingers.'

She did not smile. A veil of sadness, almost of suffering, seemed to
have fallen over her face; her eyes, faintly luminous under the white
lids, seemed drowned in shadow, the corners of her mouth drooped
wearily, her right arm hung straight and languid at her side. She no
longer held out her hand to those who greeted her; she listened no
longer to their speeches.

'What is the matter?' asked Andrea.

'Nothing--I must go to the Van Hueffels' now. Take me to Francesca to
say good-bye, and then come with me down to my carriage.'

They returned to the first drawing-room, where Luigi Gulli, a young man,
swarthy and curly-haired as an Arab, who had left his native Calabria in
search of fortune, was executing, with much feeling, Beethoven's sonata
in C# minor. The Marchesa d'Ateleta, a patroness of his, was standing
near the piano, with her eyes fixed on the keys. By degrees, the sweet
and grave music drew all these frivolous spirits within its magic
circle, like a slow-moving but irresistible whirlpool.

'Beet