“May I ask what those ideas are?” inquired Giovanni, with a show of interest.

“I am a republican,” answered Gouache, quietly.  “I am also a good Catholic.”

“Then you are yourself much more paradoxical than the whole of our Roman society put together,” answered Giovanni, with a dry laugh.

“Perhaps.  There comes the most beautiful woman in the world.”

It was nearly twelve o’clock when Corona arrived, old Astrardente sauntering jauntily by her side, his face arranged with more than usual care, and his glossy wig curled cunningly to represent nature.  He was said to possess a number of wigs of different lengths, which he wore in rotation, thus sustaining the impression that his hair was cut from time to time.  In his eye a single eyeglass was adjusted, and as he walked he swung his hat delicately in his tightly gloved fingers.  He wore the plainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs; no chain dangled showily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small feet were encased in little patent-leather shoes.  But for his painted face, he might have passed for the very incarnation of fashionable simplicity.  But his face betrayed him.

As for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful.  Not that any colour or material she wore could greatly enhance her beauty, for all who saw her on that memorable night remembered the wonderful light in her face, and the strange look in her splendid eyes; but the thick soft fall of the white velvet made as it were a pedestal for her loveliness, and the Astrardente jewels that clasped her waist and throat and crowned her black hair, collected the radiance of the many candles, and made the light cling to her and follow her as she walked.  Giovanni saw her enter, and his whole adoration came upon him as a madness upon a sick man in a fever, so that he would have sprung forward to meet her, and fallen at her feet and worshipped her, had he not suddenly felt that he was watched by more than one of the many who paused to see her go by.  He moved from his place and waited near the door where she would have to pass, and for a moment his heart stood still.

He hardly knew how it was.  He found himself speaking to her.  He asked her for a dance, he asked boldly for the cotillon—­he never knew how he had dared; she assented, let her eyes rest upon him for one moment with an indescribable expression, then grew very calm and cold, and passed on.

It was all over in an instant.  Giovanni moved back to his place as she went by, and stood still like a man stunned.  It was well that there were yet nearly two hours before the preliminary dancing would be over; he needed some time to collect himself.  The air seemed full of strange voices, and he watched the moving faces as in a dream, unable to concentrate his attention upon anything he saw.

“He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis,” said a woman’s voice near him.  It did not strike him, in his strange bewilderment, that it was Donna Tullia who had spoken, still less that she was speaking of him almost to him.