Only a short time before, when a letter from her had come to Breakstone—­a long letter full of the beauty and charm of Italy and the Italians—­Derby had gone to the edge of the forest and—­for no reason that any one could see, save the apparent joy of swinging an axe—­chopped a tree into fire-wood.

“D—­n it all,” he muttered as the chips flew, “I could support a wife—­if she wasn’t so all-fired rich.”  Later he carried a load of his wood across the clearing to the camp and slammed it down.  “Oh, h——­, I hate money!” he exclaimed vehemently to Jenkins.

Jenkins, a Southerner, took the statement placidly.  “Looks like you’re workin’ powerful hard to get what you don’t care for.  Some of that kindlin’ ’d go good under this soup pot.”

Derby laughed and fed the fire.  But “Shut up, Jenkins, you ass!” was all the latter got for a retort courteous.

CHAPTER XI

ROME GOES TO THE OPERA

On the evening of the first court ball, the Sanseveros gave a small dinner, after which they went to the opera.  The guests were the Count and Countess Olisco, Count Tornik, Don Cesare Carpazzi, and Prince Minotti.  Don Cesare Carpazzi, a thin swarthy youth, sat just across the corner of the table from Nina.  Although his appearance was one of great neatness, it was all too evident, if one observed with good eyes, that the edges of his shirt had been trimmed with the scissors until the hem narrowed close to the line of stitching; and his evening clothes in a strong light would have revealed not only the fatal gloss of long use, but also careful darning.  The old saying that “Clothes make the man” was refuted in his case, however, as his arrogance was proclaimed in every gesture.

Sitting next to him was the Countess Olisco, the Russian whom Nina had noted and admired at her aunt’s ball.  As there were but nine at dinner, and the conversation was general, Nina had time to observe closely her appearance.  She had the broad Russian brow, the Egyptian eyes and unbroken bridge of the nose.  She was the most slender woman imaginable, and her slenderness was exaggerated by the fashion of wearing her hair piled up so high and so far forward that at a distance it might be taken for a small black fur toque tipped over her nose.  She rarely wore colors, but to-night, because of the etiquette against wearing black at court, her long-trained dress was of sapphire blue velvet, as severe and as clinging as possible.

Nina divined better than she knew, when she put the little Russian and Carpazzi in the same category.  Fundamentally they were much the same, but whereas he was always bursting into flame, the contessa suggested a well banked fire that burned continually, but within destroyed itself rather than others.  Thin, white, and self-consuming, she was like the small Russian cigarettes that were never out of her lips.  Fragile as she looked, she had a will that brooked no obstacle, an energy that knew no fatigue.