“You are very late,” the countess had said, with the slightest tone of annoyance in her voice—­fanning herself languidly as she spoke.  “My son has been looking for you.”

“It has been my loss, Signora Contessa,” replied Nobili, bowing.  “Pardon me.  I was delayed.  With your permission, I will find your son.”  He bowed again, then walked on into the dancing-rooms beyond.

Nobili had come late.  “Why should he go at all?” he had asked himself, sighing, as he sat at home, smoking a solitary cigar.  “What was the Orsetti ball, or any other ball, to him, when Enrica was not there?”

Nevertheless, he did dress, and he did go, telling himself, however, that he was simply fulfilling a social duty by so doing.  Now that he is here, standing in the ballroom, the incense of the flowers in his nostrils, the music thrilling in his ear—­now that flashing eyes, flushed cheeks, graceful forms palpitating with the fury of the dance—­and hands with clasping fingers, are turned toward him—­does he still feel regretful—­sad?  Not in the least.

No sooner had he arrived than he found himself the object of a species of ovation.  This put him into the highest possible spirits.  It was most gratifying.  He could not possibly do less than return these salutations with the same warmth with which they were offered.

Not that Count Nobili acknowledged any inferiority to those among whom he moved as an equal.  Count Nobili held that, in New Italy, every man is a gentleman who is well educated and well mannered.  As to the language the Marchesa Guinigi used about him, he shook with laughter whenever it was mentioned.

So it fell out that, before he had arrived many minutes, the remembrance of Enrica died out, and Nobili flung himself into the spirit of the ball with all the ardor of his nature.

“Why did you come so late, Nobili?” asked Orsetti, turning his head, and speaking in the pause of a waltz with Luisa Bernardini.  “You must go at once and talk to Trenta about the cotillon.”

“Well, Nobili, you gave us a splendid entertainment for the festival,” said Franchi.  “Per Dio! there were no women to trouble us.”

“No women!” exclaimed Civilla—­“that was the only fault.  Divine woman!—­Otherwise it was superb.  Who has been ill-treating you, Franchi, to make you so savage?”

Franchi put up his eye-glass and stared at him.

“When there is good wine, I prefer to drink it without women.  They distract me.”

“Never saw such a reception in Lucca,” said Count Malatesta; “never drank such wine.  Go on, caro mio, go on, and prosper.  We will all support you, but we cannot imitate you.”

Nobili, passing on quickly, nearly ran over Cavaliere Trenta.  He was in the act of making a profound obeisance, as he handed an ice to one of his contemporaries.

“Ah, youth! youth!” exclaimed poor Trenta, softly, with difficulty recovering his equilibrium by the help of his stick.—­“Never mind, Count Nobili, don’t apologize; I can bear any thing from a young man who celebrates the festival of the Holy Countenance with such magnificence.  Per Bacco! you are the best Lucchese in Lucca.  I have seen nothing like it since the duke left.  My son, it was worthy of the palace you inhabit.”