fierceness of the Italian gaze. Her dress of black velvet, and graceful hat with its princely plume, contrasted the alabaster whiteness of her arms and neck. And what with the eyes, the skin, the rich colouring of the complexion, the rosy lips and the small ivory teeth, no one would have had the cold hypercriticism to observe that the chin was too pointed, the mouth too wide, and the nose, so beautiful in the front face, was far from perfect in the profile. "Pray was Madame in the Strada Nuova to-day?" asked the German, with as much sweetness in his voice as if he had been vowing eternal love. "What else have we to do with our mornings, we women?" replied Madame de Ventadour. "Our life is a lounge from the cradle to the grave; and our afternoons are but the type of our career. A promenade and a crowd,--/voila tout/! We never see the world except in an open carriage." "It is the pleasantest way of seeing it," said the Frenchman, drily. "I doubt it; the worst fatigue is that which comes without exercise." "Will you do me the honour to waltz?" said the tall English lord, who had a vague idea that Madame de Ventadour meant she would rather dance than sit still. The Frenchman smiled. "Lord Taunton enforces your own philosophy," said the minister. Lord Taunton smiled because every one else smiled; and, besides, he had beautiful teeth: but he looked anxious for an answer. "Not to-night,--I seldom dance. Who is that very pretty woman? What lovely complexions the English have! And who," continued Madame de Ventadour, without waiting for an answer to the first question, "who is that gentleman,--the young one I mean,--leaning against the door?" "What, with the dark moustache?" said Lord Taunton. "He is a cousin of mine." "Oh, no; not Colonel Bellfield; I know him--how amusing he is!--no; the gentleman I mean wears no moustache." "Oh, the tall Englishman with the bright eyes and high forehead," said the French minister. "He is just arrived--from the East, I believe." "It is a striking countenance," said Madame de Ventadour; "there is something chivalrous in the turn of the head. Without doubt, Lord Taunton, he is '/noble/'?" "He is what you call '/noble/,'" replied Lord Taunton--"that is, what we call a 'gentleman;' his name is Maltravers. He lately came of age; and has, I believe, rather a good property." "Monsieur Maltravers; only Monsieur?" repeated Madame de Ventadour. "Why," said the French minister, "you understand that the English /gentilhomme/ does not require a De or a title to distinguish him from the /roturier/." "I know that; but he has an air above a simple /gentilhomme/. There is something /great/ in his look; but it is not, I must own, the conventional greatness of rank: perhaps he would have looked the same had he been born a peasant." "You don't think him handsome?" said Lord Taunton, almost angrily (for he was one of the Beauty-men, and Beauty-men are sometimes jealous).