from him that Nobili was selected as her partner in the cotillon.

"Another of your victims," Prince Ruspoli had said, with a kindling
eye.

Nera had laughed gayly.

"My victims?" she retorted. "I wish you would tell me who they are."

This question was accompanied by a most inviting glance. Prince
Ruspoli met her glance, but said nothing. (Nera greatly preferred
Nobili, but it is well to have two strings to one's bow, and Ruspoli
was a prince with a princely revenue.)

When Nobili appeared, Prince Ruspoli, who had handed Nera to a seat
near a window, bowed to her and retired.

"To the devil with Nobili!" was Prince Ruspoli's thought, as he
resigned her. "I do like that girl--she is so English!" and Ruspoli
glanced at Poole's dress-clothes, which fitted him so badly, and
remembered with satisfaction certain balls in London, and certain
water-parties at Maidenhead (Ruspoli had been much in England),
where he had committed the most awful solecisms, according to Italian
etiquette, with frank, merry-hearted girls, whose buoyant spirits were
contagious.

Nobili's eyes fell instinctively to the ground as he approached Nera.
The rosy shadow of the red-silk curtains behind her fell upon her
face, bosom, and arms, with a ruddy glow.