On the present occasion the Boccarini girls had made great efforts to produce a brilliant result.  Madame Boccarini had told her daughters that they must expect no fresh dresses for six months at least, so great had been the outlay.  Nera, on hearing this, had tossed her stately head, and had inwardly resolved that before six months she would marry—­and that, dress or no dress, she would go wherever she had a chance of meeting Count Nobili.  Her mother tacitly concurred in these views, as far as Count Nobili was concerned, but said nothing.

A Belgravian mother who frankly drills her daughter and points out, viva voce, when to advance and when to retreat, and to whom the honors of war are to be accorded—­is an article not yet imported into classic Italy with the current Anglomania.

Beside Nera sat Prince Ruspoli, a young Roman of great wealth.  Ruspoli aspired to lead the fashion, but not even Poole could well tailor him.  (Ruspoli was called poule mouillee.) Nature had not intended it.  His tall, gaunt figure, long arms, and thin legs, rendered him artistically unavailable.  The music has just sounded from a large saloon at the end of the suite, and Prince Ruspoli has offered his arm to Nera for the first waltz.  If Count Nobili had arrived, she would have refused Ruspoli, even on the chance of losing the dance; but he had not come.  Her sisters, who are older, and less attractive than herself, had as yet found no partners; but they were habitually resigned and amiable, and submitted with perfect meekness to be obliterated by Nera.

A knot of young men have now formed near the door of the dancing-saloon.  They are eagerly discussing the cotillon, the final dance of the evening.  Count Orsetti had left his mother’s side and joined them.

The cotillon is a matter of grave consideration—­the very gravest.  Indeed it was very seldom these young heads considered any thing so grave.  On the success of the cotillon depends the success of the evening.  All the “presents” had come from Paris.  Some of the figures were new and required consultation.

“I mean to dance with Teresa Ottolini,” announced Count Orsetti, timidly—­he could not name Teresa without reddening.  “We arranged it together a month ago.”

“And I am engaged to Countess Navascoes,” said Count Malatesta.

This engagement was said to have begun some years back, and to be very enthralling.  No one objected, least of all the husband, who worshiped at the shrine of the blooming Bernardini when she quarreled with Civilla.  A lady of fashion has a choice of lovers, as she has a choice of dresses—­for all emergencies.

“But how about these new figures?” asked Orsetti.

“Per Bacco—­hear the music!” cried Malatesta.  “What a delicious waltz!  I want to dance.  Let’s settle it at once.  Who’s to lead?”

“Oh!  Baldassare, of course,” replied Franchi, a sallow, languid young man, who looked as if he had been raised in a hot-house, and had lost all his color.  “Nobody else would take the trouble.  Who is he to dance with?”