There was a little knot of people standing about the door of the great drawing-room.  Some of them were watching their opportunity to slip away unperceived; others had just arrived, and were making a survey of the scene to ascertain the exact position of their Excellencies, and of the persons they most desired to avoid, before coming forward.  Suddenly, just as Signor Strillone had reached a high note and was preparing to bellow upon it before letting his voice die away to a pathetic falsetto, the crowd at the door parted a little.  A lady entered the room alone, and stood out before the rest, pausing till the singer should have passed the climax of his song, before she proceeded upon her way.  She was a very striking woman; every one knew who she was, every one looked towards her, and the little murmur that went round the room was due to her entrance rather than to Signor Strillone’s high note.

The Duchessa d’Astrardente stood still, and quietly looked about her.  A minister, two secretaries, and three or four princes sprang towards her, each with a chair in hand; but she declined each offer, nodding to one, thanking another by name, and exchanging a few words with a third.  She would not sit down; she had not yet spoken to the ambassadress.

Two men followed her closely as she crossed the room when the song was finished.  One was a fair man of five-and-thirty, rather stout, and elaborately dressed.  He trod softly and carried his hat behind him, while he leaned a little forward in his walk.  There was something unpleasant about his face, caused perhaps by his pale complexion and almost colourless moustache; his blue eyes were small and near together, and had a watery, undecided look; his thin fair hair was parted in the middle over his low forehead; there was a scornful look about his mouth, though half concealed by the moustache; and his chin retreated rather abruptly from his lower lip.  On the other hand, he was dressed with extreme care, and his manner showed no small confidence in himself as he pushed forwards, keeping as close as he could to the Duchessa.  He had the air of being thoroughly at home in his surroundings.

Ugo del Ferice was indeed rarely disconcerted, and his self-reliance was most probably one chief cause of his success.  He was a man who performed the daily miracle of creating everything for himself out of nothing.  His father had barely been considered a member of the lower nobility, although he always called himself “dei conti del Ferice”—­of the family of the counts of his name; but where or when the Conti del Ferice had lived, was a question he never was able to answer satisfactorily.  He had made a little money, and had squandered most of it before he died, leaving the small remainder to his only son, who had spent every scudo of it in the first year.  But to make up for the exiguity of his financial resources, Ugo had from his youth obtained social success.  He had begun life by boldly calling