Christina slowly put out her arm again and looked at the dimple in her elbow.  “Ah, he ’s engaged?” she repeated in the same tone.  “He never told me.”

Rowland perceived at this moment that the people about them were beginning to return to the dancing-room, and immediately afterwards he saw Roderick making his way toward themselves.  Roderick presented himself before Miss Light.

“I don’t claim that you have promised me the cotillon,” he said, “but I consider that you have given me hopes which warrant the confidence that you will dance with me.”

Christina looked at him a moment.  “Certainly I have made no promises,” she said.  “It seemed to me that, as the daughter of the house, I should keep myself free and let it depend on circumstances.”

“I beseech you to dance with me!” said Roderick, with vehemence.

Christina rose and began to laugh.  “You say that very well, but the Italians do it better.”

This assertion seemed likely to be put to the proof.  Mrs. Light hastily approached, leading, rather than led by, a tall, slim young man, of an unmistakably Southern physiognomy.  “My precious love,” she cried, “what a place to hide in!  We have been looking for you for twenty minutes; I have chosen a cavalier for you, and chosen well!”

The young man disengaged himself, made a ceremonious bow, joined his two hands, and murmured with an ecstatic smile, “May I venture to hope, dear signorina, for the honor of your hand?”

“Of course you may!” said Mrs. Light.  “The honor is for us.”

Christina hesitated but for a moment, then swept the young man a courtesy as profound as his own bow.  “You are very kind, but you are too late.  I have just accepted!”

“Ah, my own darling!” murmured—­almost moaned—­Mrs. Light.

Christina and Roderick exchanged a single glance—­a glance brilliant on both sides.  She passed her hand into his arm; he tossed his clustering locks and led her away.

A short time afterwards Rowland saw the young man whom she had rejected leaning against a doorway.  He was ugly, but what is called distinguished-looking.  He had a heavy black eye, a sallow complexion, a long, thin neck; his hair was cropped en brosse.  He looked very young, yet extremely bored.  He was staring at the ceiling and stroking an imperceptible moustache.  Rowland espied the Cavaliere Giacosa hard by, and, having joined him, asked him the young man’s name.

“Oh,” said the Cavaliere, “he ’s a pezzo grosso!  A Neapolitan.  Prince Casamassima.”

CHAPTER VI.  Frascati