threatening she could not hesitate. She spoke to Franco. This time he did not fly into a rage, but listened in an absent-minded way, and said he would think the matter over. This was perhaps the one act of hypocrisy of his whole life. Then the Marchesa boldly played a high card, and sent for the Carabellis.

She saw plainly enough now, that the game was lost. Don Franco had not been present when the ladies arrived, and later had appeared only once for a few minutes. During those few minutes his manner had been gracious, but not so his expression. As usual his face had spoken so plainly that—though the Marchesa immediately invented an indisposition for him—no one could have been deceived. But in spite of all this, the old lady was not convinced that she had played her cards unskilfully. Ever since she had reached the age of discretion it had been a rule with her never to recognise in herself a single defect or mistake, never wittingly to wound her own noble and beloved self. Now she preferred to believe that, after her sermon on matrimony, some honeyed but poisonous and ensnaring word had mysteriously reached her grandson. If her disappointment was somewhat mitigated, this was due to the conduct of Signorina Carabelli, whose lively resentment was but ill concealed. This was not pleasing to the Marchesa. The prefect of the Caravina was not mistaken—though he perhaps erred slightly in the form of his discourse, when he said, softly, of her: "She is Austria itself." Like the old Austria of those days, the old Marchesa did not wish for any bold spirits in her empire. Her own iron will would not tolerate others in its neighbourhood. Such an indocile Lombardy-Venice as was Franco was already too much, and the Carabelli girl, who appeared to have a mind and a will of her own, would probably prove a troublesome subject of the house of Maironi, a species of turbulent Hungary.

Dinner was announced. The footman's shaven face, and ill-fitting, grey livery reflected the Marchesa's aristocratic tastes, which, however, had been tempered by habits of economy.

"And where is this Signor Giacomo, Controllore?" she said, without rising.

"I fear he is not coming, Marchesa," Pasotti replied. "I saw him this morning, and said to him: 'Then we shall meet at dinner, Signor Giacomo?' But he squirmed as if he had swallowed a snake. He twisted and turned and at last puffed out: 'Yes, probably. I don't know! Perhaps. I can't say!—Uff! uff. Well really now, my good Controllore, indeed I don't know!—Uff, uff!'—and I could get nothing more out of him."

The Marchesa summoned the footman to her side, and gave him an order in a low tone. He bowed and withdrew. In his longing for the risotto, the curate of Puria was rocking his body to and fro, and stroking his knees. But the Marchesa on her sofa, seemed turned to stone, so he also became petrified. The others gazed mutely at one another.

Poor Signora Barborin, who had seen the footman, and was surprised at this immobility and these astonished faces, arched her eyebrows, questioning with her eyes, first her husband, then Puria, then the prefect, until a lightning glance from Pasotti petrified her as well. "Perhaps the dinner is burnt!" she reflected, assuming an expression of indifference. "If they would only send us home! What luck that would be!" But in a minute or two the servant returned, and bowed.

"Let us go," the Marchesa said, rising.

In the dining-room the company found a new personage; a little, crooked, old man, with kind eyes and a long nose, that drooped towards his chin.

"Indeed, Signora Marchesa," he began, humbly and timidly, "I have already dined."

"Sit down, Signor Viscontini," the Marchesa replied, who, like all those who are determined to make their world bend to their own comfort and tastes, was well versed in the insolent art of feigning deafness.

The little man did not dare to answer, neither did he dare to sit down.

"Courage, Signor Viscontini!" said Paolin, who stood near him. "What are you doing here?"

"He is filling a gap!" muttered the prefect. In fact, the excellent Signor Viscontini, by trade a tuner of pianos, had that morning come from Lugano to tune the Zelbis' piano at Cima, and Don Franco's also, and at one o'clock he had dined at Casa Zelbi. Then he had come to Villa Maironi, and was now called upon to act as substitute for Signor Giacomo, because, without him, the company would have numbered thirteen.

A brown liquid was smoking in the silver soup-tureen.

"It is not risotto!" Pasotti whispered to Puria, passing behind him. But the big, mild face gave no sign of having heard.

The Casa Maironi dinners were always lugubrious affairs, and this one promised to be more than usually so. But as a compensation, it was much finer than usual. While they were eating, Pasotti and Puria often exchanged glances of admiration, as if congratulating one another on the exquisite delight they were enjoying; and if ever Puria failed to catch one of Pasotti's glances, Signora Barborin, seated beside him, would apprise him of it by a timid touch of her elbow.

The voices which predominated were those of the Marchesa and Donna Eugenia. Bianchi's large aristocratic nose, and his shrewd but gallant and courteous smile were often turned towards the lady's beauty, which though already fading, had not, as yet, departed. Both belonged to Milanese families of the best blood, and were united by a certain sense of superiority, not only over the other middle-class guests, but over their hosts as well, whose nobility was only provincial. The Marchese was affability itself, and would have conversed amiably with the humblest of his fellow-guests, but Donna Eugenia, in the bitterness of her soul, in her disgust for the place and the persons, attached herself to him as to the only one worthy of her attention, markedly singling him out, in order, also, to offend the others. She embarrassed him by remarking in a loud tone that she did not see how he could ever have taken a fancy to this odious Valsolda. The Marchese, who for many years had led a life of quiet and retirement in this region, where, moreover, the birth of his only daughter, Donna Ester, had taken place, was, first, greatly disconcerted, for this remark was calculated to wound several of their fellow-guests; but finally he burst into a brilliant defence of the place. The Marchesa showed no feeling; Paolin, Paolon, and the prefect, all natives of Valsolda, were silent and abashed.

Then, in pompous language, Pasotti sang the praises of Niscioree, the villa belonging to Bianchi, near Oria. These praises did not seem to please the Marchese, who, himself a most loyal man, had not always found Pasotti to his liking, in the past. He invited Donna Carabelli to come to Niscioree. "You must not go on foot, Eugenia," said the Marchesa, well aware that her friend was tormented by the fear of growing stout. "The road from the Custom House to Niscioree is so narrow! You could not possibly pass." Donna Eugenia protested hotly. "It is not, indeed, the Corso of Porta Renza," said the Marchese, "but neither is it le chemin du Paradis—unfortunately!"

"That it is not! Most certainly not! You may take my word for it!" exclaimed Viscontini, heated, as ill luck would have it, by too many glasses of Ghemme. All eyes were turned upon him, and Paolin said something to him in a low tone. "Crazy?" the little man retorted, his face aflame. "Not by any means! I tell you——" And here he related how, coming from Lugano that morning, he had felt cold in the boat, and had gotten out at Niscioree, intending to pursue his journey on foot; how there, between those two walls, where the path was so narrow an ass could not turn round in it, he had