Nobili, his cheeks still tingling, felt that the moment had come when he must seek his partner.  It would be difficult to define the contending feelings that made him reluctant to do so.  Nera Boccarini had taken no pains to conceal how much she liked him.  This was flattering; perhaps he felt it was too flattering.  There was a determination about Nera, a power of eye and tongue, an exuberance of sensuous youth, that repelled while it allured him.  It was like new wine, luscious to the taste, but strong and heavy.  New wine is very intoxicating.  Nobili loved Enrica.  At that moment every woman that did not in some subtile way remind him of her, was distasteful to him.  Now, it was not possible to find two women more utterly different, more perfect contrasts, than the dreamy, reserved, tender Enrica—­so seldom seen, so little known—­and the joyous, outspoken Nera—­to be met with at every mass, every fete, in the shops, on the Corso, on the ramparts.

Now, Nera, who had been dancing much with Prince Ruspoli, had heard from him that Nobili was selected as her partner in the cotillon.

“Another of your victims,” Prince Ruspoli had said, with a kindling eye.

Nera had laughed gayly.

“My victims?” she retorted.  “I wish you would tell me who they are.”

This question was accompanied by a most inviting glance.  Prince Ruspoli met her glance, but said nothing. (Nera greatly preferred Nobili, but it is well to have two strings to one’s bow, and Ruspoli was a prince with a princely revenue.)

When Nobili appeared, Prince Ruspoli, who had handed Nera to a seat near a window, bowed to her and retired.

“To the devil with Nobili!” was Prince Ruspoli’s thought, as he resigned her.  “I do like that girl—­she is so English!” and Ruspoli glanced at Poole’s dress-clothes, which fitted him so badly, and remembered with satisfaction certain balls in London, and certain water-parties at Maidenhead (Ruspoli had been much in England), where he had committed the most awful solecisms, according to Italian etiquette, with frank, merry-hearted girls, whose buoyant spirits were contagious.

Nobili’s eyes fell instinctively to the ground as he approached Nera.  The rosy shadow of the red-silk curtains behind her fell upon her face, bosom, and arms, with a ruddy glow.

“I am to have the honor of dancing the cotillon with you, I believe?” he said, still looking down.

“Yes, I believe so,” she responded—­“at least so I am told; but you have not asked me yet.  Perhaps you would prefer some one else.  I confess I am satisfied.”

As she spoke, Nera riveted her full black eyes upon Nobili.  If he only would look up, she would read his thoughts, and tell him her own thoughts also.  But Nobili did not look up; he felt her gaze, nevertheless; it thrilled him through and through.

At this moment, the melody of a voluptuous waltz, the opening of the cotillon, burst from the orchestra with an entrain that might have moved an anchorite.  As the sounds struck upon his ear, Nobili grew dizzy under the magnetism of those unseen eyes.  His cheeks flushed suddenly, and the blood stirred itself tumultuously in his veins.