with the Venosta--who valued herself on knowing that language and was
flattered to be addressed in it--while he amused himself by introducing
into its forms the dainty Americanisms with which he puzzled the
Britisher--he might well puzzle the Florentine,--"Madame, I am too
anxious for the appearance of my wife to submit to the test of a rival
schemer like yourself in the same apparel. With all the homage due to a
sex of which I am enthused dreadful, I decline to designate the florist
from whom I purchased Mrs. Morley's head-fixings."

"Wicked man!" cried the Venosta, shaking her finger at him coquettishly.
"You are jealous! Fie! a man should never be jealous of a woman's
rivalry with women;" and then, with a cynicism that might have become a
greybeard, she added, "but of his own sex every man should be jealous--
though of his dearest friend. Isn't it so, _Colonello_?"

The Colonel looked puzzled, bowed, and made no reply. "That only shows,"
said Mrs. Morley, rising, "what villains the Colonel has the misfortune
to call friends and fellow-men."

"I fear it is time to go," said Frank, glancing at the clock.

In theory the most rebellious, in practice the most obedient, of wives,
Mrs. Morley here kissed Isaura, resettled her crinoline, and shaking
hands with the Venosta, retreated to the door.

"I shall have the wreath yet," cried the Venosta, impishly. "_La
speranza e fenamina_" (Hope is female).

"Alas!" said Isaura, half mournfully, half smiling, "alas! do you not
remember what the poet replied when asked what disease was most mortal?--