"Not till late on Thursday night." Bianca counted upon her fingers. "Three whole days and a half," she cried. "On Friday," said the Marchesa, "we have arranged a little dance. It is so near the end of Carnival we could not put it off till long after his arrival." "Ah, dearest Marchesa," cried Costanza, clasping her hands in a rather mechanical rapture, "it will be too delightful! Do we dance in the ball-room below, or in here?" "In the ball-room," said the Marchesa, while Annunziata nodded across at me, saying-- "Do you dance, Miss Meredith?" "Yes; I am very fond of it," I answered, but it must be owned that I looked forward with but scant interest to the festivity. My insular mind was unable to rise to the idea of Italian partners. Costanza raised her eyeglass, with its long tortoiseshell handle, to her heavy-lidded eyes, and surveyed me scrutinizingly. It had been evident from the first that she had but a poor opinion of me. "I hope you will join us on Friday, Miss Meredith," said the Marchesa, with much ceremony. I could not help feeling snubbed. I had taken it for granted that I was to appear; this formal invitation was inexpressibly chilling. I did not enjoy my holiday of the next few days. I had always been exceedingly grateful for my few hours of daily solitude, and these were mine no more. The fact that the ladies of the household never seemed to need either solitude or silence had impressed me from the first as a curious phenomenon. Now, for the time being, I was dragged into the current of their lives, and throughout the day was forced to share in the ceaseless chatter, without which, it seemed, a guest could not be entertained, a ball given, or even a son received into the bosom of his family. Here, there, and everywhere was the unfortunate Miss Meredith--at everybody's beck and call, "upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber." "It is fortunate that it is only me," I reflected. "I don't know what Jenny or Rosalind would do. They would just pack up and go." For, at home, the liberty of the individual had always been greatly respected, which was, perhaps, the reason why we managed to live together in such complete harmony. As for Bianca and her friend, they clattered about all day long together on their high heels, their arms intertwined, exchanging confidences, comparing possessions, and eating _torino_ till their teeth ached. In the intervals of this absorption in friendship my pupil would come up to me, throw her arms round me, and pour out a flood of the frankest criticisms on the fair Costanza. To these I refused to listen. "How can I tell, Bianca, that you do not rush off to the Contessima and complain of me to her?" "Dearest little signorina, there could be nothing to complain of." "Of course," I said, "we know that. I am perfect. But, seriously, Bianca, I do not understand this kissing and hugging of a person one moment, and saying evil things of her the next."