On the last night of Carnival, Del Ferice appeared once more.  He had not been able to resist the temptation of getting one glimpse of the world he loved, before the wet blanket of Lent extinguished the lights of the ballrooms and the jollity of the dancers.  Every one was surprised to see him, and most people were pleased; he was such a useful man, that he had often been missed during the time of his illness.  He was improved in appearance; for though he was very pale, he had grown also extremely thin, and his features had gained delicacy.

When Giovanni saw him, he went up to him, and the two men exchanged a formal salutation, while every one stood still for a moment to see the meeting.  It was over in a moment, and society gave a little sigh of relief, as though a weight were removed from its mind.  Then Del Ferice went to Donna Tullia’s side.  They were soon alone upon a small sofa in a small room, whither a couple strayed now and then to remain a few minutes before returning to the ball.  A few people passed through, but for more than an hour they were not disturbed.

“I am very glad to see you,” said Donna Tullia; “but I had hoped that the first time you went out you would have come to my house.”

“This is the first time I have been out—­you see I should not have found you at home, since I have found you here.”

“Are you entirely recovered?  You still look ill.”

“I am a little weak—­but an hour with you will do me more good than all the doctors in the world.”

“Thanks,” said Donna Tullia, with a little laugh.  “It was strange to see you shaking hands with Giovanni Saracinesca just now.  I suppose men have to do that sort of thing.”

“You may be sure I would not have done it unless it had been necessary,” returned Del Ferice, bitterly.

“I should think not.  What an arrogant man he is!”

“You no longer like him?” asked Del Fence, innocently.

“Like him!  No; I never liked him,” replied Donna Tullia, quickly.

“Oh, I thought you did; I used to wonder at it.”  Ugo grew thoughtful.

“I was always good to him,” said Donna Tullia.  “But of course I can never forgive him for what he did at the Frangipani ball.”

“No; nor I,” answered Del Ferice, readily.  “I shall always hate him for that too.”

“I do not say that I exactly hate him.”

“You have every reason.  It appears to me that since my illness we have another idea in common, another bond of sympathy.”  Del Ferice spoke almost tenderly; but he laughed immediately afterwards, as though not wishing his words to be interpreted too seriously.  Donna Tullia smiled too; she was inclined to be very kind to him.

“You are very quick to jump at conclusions,” she said, playing with her red fan and looking down.

“It is always easy to reach that pleasant conclusion—­that you and I are in sympathy,” he answered, with a tender glance, “even in regard to hating the same person.  The bond would be close indeed, if it depended on the opposite of hate.  And yet I sometimes think it does.  Are you not the best friend I have in the world?”