The view of the Tiber gave an additional embellishment to this house, which was ornamented, internally, with the most perfect elegance.  The saloon was decorated with copies, in plaster, of the best statues in Italy—­Niobe, Laocoon, Venus de Medicis, and the Dying Gladiator.  In the apartment where Corinne received company were instruments of music, books, and furniture not more remarkable for its simplicity than for its convenience, being merely arranged so as to render the conversation easy, and to draw the circle more closely together.  Corinne had not yet made her appearance when Oswald arrived; while waiting for her he walked about the apartment with much eager curiosity, remarking in every particular a happy medley of all that is most agreeable in the English, French and Italian nations; the love of literature, the taste for society, and a passion for the fine arts.

Corinne at length appeared; her costume was still picturesque without being over-studied.  Her hair was ornamented with antique cameos and she wore a necklace of coral:  her politeness was noble and easy:  in beholding her in the familiar circle of her friends, you might discover in her the goddess of the Capitol, notwithstanding she was perfectly simple and natural in everything.  She first saluted the Count d’Erfeuil, her eyes fixed upon Oswald; and then, as if she repented this piece of falsehood, she advanced towards the latter—­and it might be remarked that in addressing him by the title of Lord Nelville, that name seemed to produce a singular effect upon her, and twice she repeated it with a faltering voice, as if it recalled some affecting remembrances.

At length, in the most graceful manner, she thanked Lord Nelville, in Italian, for his obliging behaviour on the preceding day in picking up her crown.  Oswald answered by expressing the admiration with which she inspired him, and gently complained of her not speaking to him upon this occasion in English:  “Am I more an alien to you to-day,” added he, “than I was yesterday?” “No certainly,” replied Corinne; “but when people have, like me, for several years, been in the habit of speaking two or three different languages, they are apt to employ that which will best convey the sentiments they wish to express.”  “Surely,” said Oswald, “English is your natural language, that which you speak to your friends, that—­” “I am an Italian,” interrupted Corinne—­“pardon me, my lord, but I think I discover in you that national pride which often characterises your countrymen.  In this country we are more modest; we are neither pleased with ourselves like the French, nor proud of ourselves like the English:  we only ask a little indulgence of foreigners, and as we have long ceased to be considered a nation, we are guilty of sometimes being wanting, as individuals, in that dignity which is not allowed us as a people.  But when you are acquainted with the Italians, you will see that they possess in their character, some traces of ancient greatness, some rare traces which, though now effaced, may appear again in happier times.  I will speak English to you sometimes, but not always:  Italian is dear to me; for I have endured much,” added she, “to reside in Italy.”