Nina, furious, told herself that she did not believe one word that this spiteful woman was saying, but it made an impression all the same, which was, of course, exactly what the contessa wanted.

“Tornik, too, needs a fortune badly,” Maria Potensi went on piercing neatly.  “It is hard, over here with us, that men acquire fortunes only by marriage.  In America, it must be better, for there they can earn their money, and marry for love.”

Nina felt her cheeks burn as she listened, but there was nothing she could say.  She knew only too well how hard it would be to believe herself loved.

But not all of the women were like the Contessa Potensi, and by the time Nina had been a month in Rome, she had, with the responsiveness of youth, formed several friendships that were rapidly drifting into intimacies, though she chose as her associates, for the most part, young married women rather than girls.  Her particular friend was Zoya Olisco, really six months younger than herself, but of a precocious worldly experience that gave her at least ten years’ advantage.

The young girls were to Nina quite incomprehensible.  Their curiously negative behavior in public, their self-conscious diffidence, seemed to her stupid; but their education filled her with envy and shame.  Nearly all spoke several languages, not in her own fashion of broken French, broken German, and baby-talk Italian, but with perfect facility and correctness of grammar.  Nearly all were thoroughly grounded in mathematics, history, literature, and science.  And yet their whole attitude toward life seemed out of balance; they were like pedagogues never out of the schoolroom—­one moment discoursing learnedly, the next prattling like little children.  The end and aim of life to them was marriage.  Each talked of her dot and of what it might buy her in the way of a husband, very much as girls in America might plan the spending of their Christmas money.

In spite of the unusual liberty allowed Nina, as an American, it seemed to her that she was very restricted.  She had, for instance, suggested that they ask Carpazzi to dine with them alone and go to the opera.  But the princess had said, “Impossible.  Carpazzi, finding no one but the family, would naturally suppose we wish to arrange a marriage between you.”

Marry Carpazzi!  It was ridiculous; she never had heard of such customs!  “Well, then, why not ask Tornik?” she suggested.  “He is not an Italian.”  The princess demurred.  It might be possible to ask Tornik—­still it was better not.  Unless Nina wanted to marry Tornik?  Apparently there was little use in pursuing this subject further, so she laughed and gave it up.

They were in the princess’s room, at the time, and Nina, dressed for the street, was pulling on new gloves of fawn-colored suede.  Her brown velvet and fox furs, her big hat with a fox band fastened with an osprey, were all that the modeste’s art could achieve.