the leading-strings. If he marries Teresa Ottolini--and it is said
such a result is certain--no palace in Lucca would be big enough to
hold Teresa and the countess-mother at one time.

Group after group enters, bows to the countess, and passes on among
the flowers: the Countess Navascoes (with her lord), pale, statuesque,
dark-eyed, raven-haired--a type of Italian womanhood; Marchesa
Manzi--born of the noble house of Buoncampagni--looking as if she
had walked out of a picture by Titian; the Da Gia, separated from
her husband--a little habit, this, of Italian ladies, consequent upon
intimacy with the _jeunesse dorée_, who prefer the wives of their best
friends to all other women--it saves trouble, and a "golden youth"
is essentially idle. This little habit, moreover, of separation from
husbands does not damage the lady in the least; no one inquires what
has happened, or who is in the wrong. Society receives and pets her
just the same, and, quite impartial, receives and pets the husband
also.--Luisa Bernardini, a glowing little countess, as plump as an
ortolan, dimpling with smiles, an ugly old husband at her side--comes
next. It is whispered, unless the ugly old husband is blind as well
as deaf, they will be separated, too, very shortly. Young Civilla,
a "golden youth," is so very pressing. He could live with Luisa
at Naples--a cheap place. They might have gone on for years as a
triangular household--but for Civilla's carelessness. Civilla would
always put out old Bernardini about the dinner. (Civilla dined at
Bernardini's house every day, as he would at a _café_.) Now, old
Bernardini did not care a button that his little wife had a lover; it
would not have been _en règle_ if she had not--nor did he care that
his wife's lover should dine with him every day--not a bit--but old
Bernardini is a gourmand, and he does care to be kept waiting for his
dinner. He has lately confided to a friend, that he should be sorry