There was a knock at the door, and a ruddy old face looked in. It
is the Cavaliere Trenta, in his official blue coat and gold buttons,
nankeen inexpressibles, a broad-brimmed white hat and a gold-headed
cane in his hand. Whatever speck of dust might have had the audacity
to venture to settle itself upon any part of the cavaliere's official
blue coat, must at once have hidden its diminished head after peeping
at the cavaliere's beaming countenance, so scrubbed and shiny, the
white hair so symmetrically arranged upon his forehead in little
curls--his whole appearance so neat and trim.

"Is it permitted to enter?" he asked, smiling blandly at the marchesa,
as, leaning upon his stick, he made her a ceremonious bow.

"Yes, Cesarino, yes, you may enter," she replied, stiffly. "I cannot
very well send you away now--but you deserve it."

"Why, most distinguished lady?" again asked Trenta, submissively,
closing the door, and advancing to where she sat. He bent down his
head and kissed her hand, then smiled at Enrica. "What have I done?"

"Done? You know you never came last night at all. I missed my game of
whist. I do not sleep well without it."

"But, marchesa," pleaded Trenta, in the gentlest voice, "I am
desolated, as you can conceive--desolated; but what could I do?
Yesterday was the festival of the Holy Countenance, that solemn
anniversary that brings prosperity to our dear city!" And the
cavaliere cast up his mild blue eyes, and crossed himself upon the
breast. "I was most of the day in the cathedral. Such a service!
Better music than last year. In the evening I had promised to arrange