his heels.

"Out of the ballroom," continued Trenta, eying him with quiet scorn,
"I advise caution--great caution. Out of the ballroom you are capable
of any imbecility."

"Cavaliere!" cried Baldassare, turning very red and looking at him
reproachfully.

"You have deserved this reproof, young man," said the marchesa,
harshly. "Learn your place in addressing the Count Marescotti."

That the son of a shopkeeper should presume to dispute in her presence
with a Roman noble, was a thing so unsuitable that, even in her own
house, she must put it down authoritatively. She had never liked
Baldassare--never wanted to receive him, now she resolved never to see
him again; but, as she feared that Trenta would continue to bring him,
under pretext of making up her whist-table, she did not say so.

The medical Adonis was forced to swallow his rage, but his cheeks
tingled. He dared not quarrel either with the marchesa, Trenta, or
the count, by whose joint support alone he could hope to plant himself
firmly in the realms of Lucchese fashionable life--a life which he
felt was his element. Utterly disconcerted, however, he turned down
his eyes, and stared at his boots, which were highly glazed, then
glanced up at his own face (as faultless and impassive as a Greek
mask) in a mirror opposite, hastily arranged his hair, and finally
collapsed into silence and a corner.

At this moment Count Marescotti became suddenly aware of Enrica's