She might be three or four and twenty. She was dressed in black velvet,
which contrasted with the alabaster whiteness of her throat and the clear
paleness of her complexion, while it set off the diamonds with which she
was profusely covered. Her hair was of the deepest jet, and worn simply
braided. Her eyes, too, were dark and brilliant, her features regular
and striking; but their expression, when in repose, was not prepossessing
to such as love modesty and softness in the looks of woman. But when she
spoke and smiled, there was so much spirit and vivacity in the
countenance, so much fascination in the smile, that all which might
before have marred the effect of her beauty strangely and suddenly
disappeared.

"Who is that very handsome woman?" asked Randal. "An Italian,--
a Marchesa something," said one of the Etonians.

"Di Negra," suggested another, who had been abroad: "she is a widow; her
husband was of the great Genoese family of Negra,--a younger branch of
it."

Several men now gathered thickly around the fair Italian. A few ladies
of the highest rank spoke to her, but with a more distant courtesy than
ladies of high rank usually show to foreigners of such quality as Madame
di Negra. Ladies of rank less elevated seemed rather shy of her,--that
might be from jealousy. As Randal gazed at the marchesa with more
admiration than any woman, perhaps, had before excited in him, he heard a
voice near him say,

"Oh, Madame di Negra is resolved to settle amongst us, and marry an
Englishman."