the Sovrani palace was so amply supplied.  When he was thus installed, he made the picturesque centre of a brilliant little scene enough,—­one of those vivacious and bright gatherings which can be found nowhere so perfectly blended in colour and in movement as in a great art-studio in Rome.  Italians are not afraid to speak, to move, to smile,—­unlike the Anglo-Saxon race, their ease of manner is inborn, and comes to them without training, hence there is nothing of the stiff formality and awkward gloom which too frequently hangs like a cloud over English attempts at sociality,—­and that particular charm which is contained in the brightness and flashing of eyes, creates a dazzling effect absolutely unknown to colder northern climes.  Eyes,—­so potent to bewitch and to command, are a strangely neglected influence in certain forms of social intercourse.  English eyes are too often dull and downcast, and wear an inane expression of hypocrisy and prudery; unless they happen to be hard and glittering and meaningless; but in southern climes, they throw out radiant invitations, laughing assurances, brilliant mockeries, melting tendernesses, by the thousand flashes, and make a fire of feeling in the coldest air.  And so in Angela’s beautiful studio, among the whiteness of classic marbles, and the soft hues of richly falling draperies, fair faces shone out like flowers, lit up by eyes, whose light seemed to be vividly kindled by the heat of an amorous southern sun,—­Venetian eyes blue as a cornflower, Florentine eyes brown and brilliant as a russet leaf in autumn, Roman eyes black as night, Sicilian eyes of all hues, full of laughter and flame—­and yet among all, no sweeter or more penetratingly tender eyes than those of Sylvie Hermenstein ever shot glances abroad to bewilder and dazzle the heart of man.  Not in largeness, colour or brilliancy lay their charm, but in deep, langourous, concentrated sweetness,—­a sweetness so far-reaching from the orb to the soul that it was easy to sink away into their depths and dream,—­and never wish to wake.  Sylvie was looking her fairest that afternoon,—­the weather was chilly, and the close-fitting black velvet dress with its cape-like collar of rich sables, well became her figure and delicately fair complexion, and many a spiteful little whisper concerning her went round among more showy but less attractive women,—­many an involuntary but low murmur of admiration escaped from the more cautious lips of the men.  She was talking to the Princesse D’Agramont, who with her brilliant dark beauty could afford to confess ungrudgingly the charm of a woman so spirituelle as Sylvie, and who, between various careless nods and smiles to her acquaintance, was detailing to her with much animation the account of her visit to the Marquis Fontenelle before leaving Paris.

“He must be very epris!” said the Princesse laughing, “For he froze into a rigid statue of virtue when I suggested that he should escort me to Rome!  I did not wait to see the effect of my announcement that you were already there!”