“Let him see who will have him.  I shall not interfere.  He’ll dance for both, anyhow,” answered Orsetti, laughing.  “No one competes with Adonis.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh! dancing, of course,” returned Orsetti.  “Don’t you see him twirling round like a teetotum, with Marchesa Amici ’of the swan-neck?’” And he pointed to a pair who were waltzing with such precision that they never by a single step broke the circle—­Baldassare gallantly receiving the charge of any free lancers who flung themselves in their path.

Baldassare is much elated at being permitted to dance with “the swan-neck,” a little faded now, but once a noted beauty.  The swan-neck is a famous lady.  Ill-natured persons might have added an awkward syllable to famous. She had been very dear to a great Russian magnate who lived in a villa lined with malachite, and loaded her with gifts.  But as the marquis, her husband, was always with her and invariably spoke of his wife as an angel, where was the harm?  Now the Russian magnate was dead, and the Marchesa Amici had retired to Lucca, to enjoy the spoils along with her discreet and complaisant marquis.

“How that young fellow does push himself!” observes the cynical Franchi.  “Dancing with the Amici—­such a great lady!  Nothing is sacred to him.”

“I wish Nobili were come.”  It was Orsetti who spoke now.  “I should have liked him to lead instead of Baldassare.  Adonis is getting forward.  He wants keeping in order.  Will no one else lead?  I cannot, in my own house.”

“Oh! but you would mortally offend poor Trenta if you did not let Baldassare lead.  The women will keep him in order,” was the immediate reply of a young man who had not yet spoken.  “The cavaliere must marshal the dancers, and Baldassare must lead, or the old man would break his heart.”

“I wish Nobili were here all the same,” replied Orsetti.  “If he does not come soon, we must select his partner for him.  Whom is he to have?”

“Oh!  Nera Boccarini, of course,” responded two or three voices, amid a general titter.

“I don’t think Nobili cares a straw about Nera,” put in the languid Franchi, drawling out his words.  “I have heard quite another story about Nobili.  Give Nera to Ruspoli.  He seems about to take her for life.  I wish him joy!” with a sneer.  “Ruspoli likes English manners.  Nera won’t get Nobili, my word upon that—­there are too many stories about her.”

But these remarks at the moment passed unnoticed.  No one asked what Franchi had heard, all being intent about the cotillon and the choice of partners.

“Well,” burst out Orsetti, no longer able to resist the music (the waltz had been turned into a galop), “I am sure I don’t care if Nobili or Ruspoli likes Nera.  I shall not try to cut them out.”

“No, no, not you, Orsetti!  We know your taste does not lie in that quarter.  Yours is the domestic style, chaste and frigid!” cried Malatesta, with a sardonic smile.  There was a laugh.  Malatesta was so bad, even according to the code of the “golden youths,” that he compromised any lady by his attentions.  Orsetti blushed crimson.