"I beg pardon, count," answered the urbane Trenta, remembering
Nobili's liberal politics--"I mean no society. Society, as a system,
has ceased to exist in Italy. But we must think of the cotillon. It
is now twelve o'clock. There will be supper. Then we must soon begin.
You, count, are to dance with Nera Boccarini. You came so late we were
obliged to arrange it for you."

Nobili colored crimson.

"Does the lady--does Nera Boccarini know this?" he asked, and as he
asked his color heightened.

"Well, I cannot tell you, but I presume she does. Count Orsetti will
have told her. The cotillon was settled early. You have no objection
to dance with her, I presume?"

"None--none in the world. Why should I?" replied Nobili, hastily (now
the color of his cheeks had grown crimson). "Only--only I might
not have selected her." The cavaliere looked up at him with evident
surprise. "Am I obliged to dance the cotillon at all, cavaliere?"
added Nobili, more and more confused. "Can't I sit out?"

"Oh, impossible--simply impossible!" cried Trenta, authoritatively.
"Every couple is arranged. Not a man could fill your place; the whole
thing would be a failure."

"I am sorry," answered Nobili, in a low voice--"sorry all the same."

"Now go, and find your partner," said Trenta, not heeding this little
speech. "I am about to have the chairs arranged. Go and find your