“Why should I repulse this girl because she loves me?” he asked himself.

This question came to him, wafted, as it were, upon the wings of the music.

“Count Nobili, you have not answered me,” insisted Nera.  She had not moved.  “You are very absent this evening.  Do you wish to dance with me?  Tell me.”

She dwelt upon the words.  Her voice was low and very pleading.  Nobili had not yet spoken.

“I ask you again,” she said.

This time her voice sounded most enticing.  She touched his arm, too, laying her soft fingers upon it, and gazed up into his face.  Still no answer.

“Will you not speak to me, Nobili?” She leaned forward, and grasped his arm convulsively.  “Nobili, tell me, I implore you, what have I done to offend you?”

Tears gathered in her eyes.  Nobili felt her hand tremble.

He looked up; their eyes met.  There was a fire in hers that was contagious.  His heart gave a great bound.  Pressing within his own the hand that still rested so lovingly upon his arm, Nobili gave a rapid glance round.  The room was empty; they were standing alone near the window, concealed by the ample curtains.  Now the red shadow fell upon them both—­

“This shall be my answer, Nera—­siren,” whispered Nobili.

As he speaks he clasps her in his arms; a passionate kiss is imprinted upon her lips.

* * * * *

Hours have passed; one intoxicating waltz-measure has been exchanged for another, that falls upon the ear as enthralling as the last.  Not an instant had the dances ceased.  The Cavaliere Trenta, his round face beaming with smiles, is seated in an arm-chair at the top of the largest ballroom.  He keeps time with his foot.  Now and then he raps loudly with his stick on the floor and calls out the changes of the figures.  Baldassare and Luisa Bernardini lead with the grace and precision of practised dancers.

“Brava! brava! a thousand times!  Brava!” calls out the cavaliere from his arm-chair, clapping his hands.  “You did that beautifully, marchesa!”—­This was addressed to the swan’s-neck, who had circled round, conducted by her partner, selecting such gentlemen as she pleased, and grouping them in one spot, in order to form a bouquet.  “You couldn’t have done it better if you had been taught in Paris.—­Forward! forward!” to a timid couple, to whom the intricacies of the figure were evidently distracting.  “Belle donne! belle donne!  Victory to the brave!  Fear nothing.—­Orsetti, keep the circle down there; you are out of your place.  You will never form the bouquet if you don’t—­Louder! louder!” to the musicians, holding up his stick at them like a marshal’s baton—­“loud as they advance—­then piano—­diminuendo—­pia-nis-si-mo—­as they retreat.  That sort of thing gives picturesqueness—­light and shade, like a picture.  Hi! hi!  Malatesta!  The devil!  You are spoiling every thing!  Didn’t I tell you to present the flowers to your partner?  So—­so.  The flowers—­they are there.”  Trenta pointed to a table.  He struggled to rise to fetch the bouquets himself.  Malatesta was too quick for him, however.