But to return to Teresa.  She is courtesying very low to the Countess Orsetti.  Although it is well known that these ladies hate each other, Countess Orsetti receives Teresa with a special welcome, kisses her on both cheeks, addresses more compliments to her, and makes her more courtesies than to any one else.  How beautiful she is, the Ottolini, with those white flowers twisted into the braids of her chestnut hair!—­those large, lazy eyes, too—­like sleeping volcanoes!—­Count Orsetti thinks her beautiful, clearly; for, under the full battery of his mother’s glances, he advances to meet her, blushing like a girl.  He presses Teresa’s hand, and whispers in her ear that “she must not forget her promise about the cotillon.  He has lived upon it ever since.”  Her reply has apparently satisfied him, for the honest fellow breaks out all over into smiles and bows and amorous glances.  Then she passes on, the fair Teresa, like a queen, followed by looks of unmistakable admiration—­much more unmistakable looks of admiration than would be permitted elsewhere; but we are in Italy, where men are born artists and have artistic feelings.

The men, as a rule, are neither as distinguished looking nor as well dressed as the women.  The type of the Lucchese nobleman is dark, short, and commonplace—­rustic is the word.

There is the usual crowding in doorways, and appropriation of seats whence arrivals can be seen and criticised.  But there is no line of melancholy young girls wanting partners.  The gentlemen decidedly predominate, and all the ladies, except Teresa Ottolini and the Boccarini, are married.

The Marchesa Boccarini had already arrived, accompanied by her three daughters.  They are seated near the door leading from the first saloon, where Countess Orsetti is stationed.  In front of them is a group of flowering plants and palm-trees.  Madame Boccarini peers through the leaves, glass in eye.  As a general scans the advance of the enemy’s troops from behind an ambush, calculates what their probable movements will be, and how he can foil them—­either by open attack or feigned retreat, skirmish or manoeuvre—­so Madame Boccarini scans the various arrivals between the dark-green foliage.

To her every young and pretty woman is a rival to her daughters; if a rival, an enemy—­if an enemy, to be annihilated if possible, or at least disabled, and driven ignominiously from the field.

It is well known that the Boccarini girls are poor.  They will have no portions—­every one understands that.  The Boccarini girls must marry as they can; no priest will interest himself in their espousals.  It was this that made Nera so attractive.  She was perfectly natural and unconventionally bold—­“like an English mees,” it was said—­with looks of horror. (The Americans have much to answer for; they have emancipated young ladies; all their sins, and our own to boot, we have to answer for abroad.)

The Boccarini were in reality so poor that it was no uncommon thing for them to remain at home because they could not afford to buy new dresses in which to display themselves. (Poor Madame Boccarini felt this far more than the girls did themselves.) To be seen more than thrice in the same dress is impossible.  Lucca is so small, every one’s clothes are known.  There was no throwing dust in the eyes of dear female friends in this particular.