The marchesa was also much interested in the new heiress, and although a certain finish of demeanor now modified their remarks, none of them attempted to conceal her ambition to secure Nina’s money for her own family.

The Princess Malio was more eager than skeptical as she asked the marchesa, “Have you heard the story of her half a million dollar income?  Do you believe it possible!”

The marchesa turned her little hands over, palms up.  “She has something incredible, but I cannot say how much.  Maria Potensi asked the American ambassador if the celebrated James Randolph was as rich as reputed, and he said——­”

The duchess became almost apoplectic in her eagerness.  “He said——­”

The marchesa looked for all the world like a young girl telling a fairy tale.  “He said”—­she breathed it in wonder—­“that Mr. Randolph’s wealth was so fabulous that it was beyond computing!  And this is his only child!”

An awed stillness fell upon the group, each old lady looking and longing according to her own nature.  It was the marchesa who at last broke the silence.  “I cannot deny that I should like my Cesare to be so fortunate as to win her, but I must confess she and Giovanni Sansevero make a charming couple!”

“Dancing, yes,” snapped the duchess, “but for my taste they dance too fast!”

“She is doubtless thinking of her tub of a son, who moves with about the grace of an elephant,” whispered the Princess Malio behind her fan.

“I can imagine nothing more graceful than the picture they make at this moment,” the marchesa answered, wistfully regarding the two slim figures whirling down the length of the room, dancing, dancing on! as though it were the first, and not the tenth, time they had traversed the great gallery; the elastic poise of each the same, the gold-colored gauze of Nina’s dress exactly matching the rippling waves of glorious hair only a shade below the sleek black head of her partner.

Yet the marchesa was perhaps no more anxious than either of the others to have Giovanni bear off the American prize.  “My Cesare does not return from England for another month,” she added only half audibly, and then she sighed.

Suddenly the old princess pounced like a lean cat upon a new thought.  “Ah, ha!  There is some trouble brewing!  Maria Potensi has found your picture of dancing grace a bit too charming.  Di Valdo is biting his mustache, and she is giving herself away!  I always thought the wind sat in that quarter.  Now—­she is losing her temper—­and with it her discretion!”

“Maria Potensi is above suspicion,” interrupted the marchesa.  “I do not believe there is a word of truth in what you imply.”

“But how do you account for her jewels?  I am interested to hear.  There were none in the Potensi family, nor in her own!”

“She says quite frankly that they were given her by an old Russian who is her god-father.”