The question of “Good Taste,” however, was another matter and the princess changed the subject by asking: 

“Does any one know what the opera is to-night?”

The Contessa Olisco announced:  “La Traviata.”  “They are to have a special scene in the third act,” she said, “to introduce a new dance of Favorita’s.”  She did not look at Giovanni, and yet she seemed to be aiming her remarks at him.  To Nina it all meant nothing.  Once or twice she had heard the name of the celebrated dancer, but it merely brushed through her perceptions like other fleeting suggestions; nothing ever had brought it to a full stop.

The talk turned on other topics, and as the meal was very short, only five courses, the princess, the contessa, and Nina soon withdrew to another room.  The conversation there, as it happened, came back to the subject of Carpazzi.

Zoya Olisco lit her cigarette and spoke with it pasted on her lower lip.  She smoked like this continually, and never touched the cigarette except to light it and put a new one in its place.

“Though I see what he means,” she said, “I should, were I in his place, claim a title!  They need not take a new one.  My husband told me that the Carpazzi were of the genuine optimates of the Roman Duchy.”

“I think Cesare regrets in his heart,” said the Princess Sansevero, “that his ancestors did not accept one, but I agree with him now.”

She stirred her coffee slowly and then added, “I am fond of the boy, but I do not think I shall have him to dinner soon again.  He is too uncontrolled.”

The contessa agreed.  And then, with her eyes half shut to avoid the smoke of her cigarette, she stared with fixed curiosity at Nina.

“Do you find people here like those in America?” she asked.

“Yes, some are quite like Americans,” Nina answered, and added frankly, “but you at least are altogether different from any one I have ever seen!”

“Really, am I?” The contessa raised her eyebrows and laughed.  “I know of what you are thinking!” She said it with a deliciously impulsive candor.  “You are thinking of my marriage.  Yes, it is true!  The instant my father said ‘no,’ I took poison.  It was the only way.  Had fate willed it, I would have died.  But fate willed that I should be—­just married.”  She laughed again.

Nina glanced at her aunt, whose answering smile said clearly, “I told you she was like this.”

The contessa lit another cigarette—­everything she said and did seemed incongruous with her appearance, she was so fragile and so young.  Nina became more and more fascinated as she watched her.

“But supposing that, after meeting him, you had not liked him?” she asked.

“That is impossible.  I know always if I like people.  I like people at sight—­or I detest them!  For instance, I detest Donna Francesca Dobini.  She is a beauty, I know.  She has charming manners; so has a cat.  She is all soft sweetness.  Ugh!  I hate her!—­But I like you.”