himself so much as on this occasion--all the difficulties of the new
figures have been triumphantly surmounted. Gentlemen had become spokes
of a gigantic wheel that whirled round a lady seated on a chair in
the centre of the room. They had been named as roots, trees, and even
vegetables; they had answered to such names, seeking corresponding
weeds as their partners. At a clap of the cavaliere's hands they had
dashed off wildly, waltzing. Gentlemen had worn paper nightcaps, put
on masks, and been led about blindfold. They had crept under chairs,
waved flags from tables, thrown up colored balls, and unraveled
puzzles--all to the rhythm of the waltz-measure babbling on like a
summer brooklet under the sun, through emerald meadows.

And now the exciting moment of the ribbons is come--the moment
when the best presents are to be produced--the ribbons--a sheaf of
rainbow-colors, fastened into a strong golden ring, which ring is to
be held by a single lady, each gentleman grasping (as best he can) a
single ribbon. As long as the lady seated on the chair in the centre
pleases, the gentlemen are to gyrate round her. When she drops the
ring holding the sheaf of ribbons, the Cavaliere Trenta is to clap his
hands, and each gentleman is instantly to select that lady who wears
a rosette corresponding in color to his ribbon--the lady in the chair
being claimed by her partner.

Nobili has placed Nera Boccarini on the chair in the centre. (Ever
since the flavor of that fervid kiss has rested on his lips, Nobili
has been lost in a delicious dream. "Why should not he and Nera
dance on--on--on--forever?--Into indefinite space, if possible--only
together?" He asks himself this question vaguely, as she rests within
his arms--as he drinks in the subtile perfume of the red roses bound
in her glossy hair.)