“It is so condescending of you, Doña de Alva, so kind of you, Countess de Pariza,” she murmurs, “to honor me in my own home,” and courtesying to the ground, kisses Hermoine’s hand, which that young lady, daughter of the Viceroy of Spain, courteously permits,—then steps immediately across the apartment to allow the two gentlemen, bowing before her, the same privilege. The Countess de Pariza does not extend her formal, thin, severe hand, as the daughter of the ex-burgomaster courtesies to the floor before her, but says rather brusquely: “We have called, Juffrouw Bodé Volcker to see you dance again. It pleased me greatly last night.” “To see me dance—here?” says the young lady, pouting, as the Countess uses to her Juffrouw, the title of the middle classes, with little more ceremony than she would to a serving girl. “I—I am not in costume. Besides, these gentlemen—.” Miss Bodé Volcker looks embarrassed, as the request has the form of a command, that will make her seem more like a dancing girl than a young lady of society to Captain Guido Amati. “To be sure. You can put on your costume. Run upstairs, and deck yourself at once. Those pink silk stockings become you,” replies Señora de Pariza. “As for these gentlemen,” she turns her argus eyes upon Chester and Oliver, who are in conversation with Doña Hermoine, though as her father’s under-secretary, Antony has stepped slightly behind the Englishman, who is a military swell under his title Captain of Musketeers, “they must be relatives, you converse with them alone, Juffrouw Bodé Volcker. It’s a very bad habit for girls of your age to adopt. Lines of propriety are drawn at brothers; cousins are very dangerous. So trip upstairs and put on the costume of Hungary, which became you so well last night. I will call in one of my Moorish girls who plays the spinet.” With this the duenna would stride to the door to summon an attendant, but Doña Hermoine, noting the embarrassment the order causes the aspiring Mina, with that unaffected condescension which very great rank permits the potentates of this world to make those below them in station easy and happy, suddenly cries; “Dancing, Countess? then I’m your young lady!” and tossing off with one graceful gesture her furry wraps, with another sweeps up a trailing silken skirt and stands a picture before them, laughing: “Castanets, and I am an Andalusian gipsy!” But the duenna, suddenly drawing herself up, utters a horrified ejaculation: “Before these gentlemen, Doña de Alva?” “Why not, if I can dance well enough to please them? Captain Guido has placed me last night under obligations that permit me to do anything for his benefit and pleasure, and Señor Oliver is one of my father’s household, and as such very near to me.” Here Oliver winces. He could betray the tyrant father, but the thought that this being of goodness and kindness will one day think him a traitor and ignoble brings with it twinges of remorse.