“Let us seek Reginald Melville,” said she, “you will doubtless be glad of some refreshment.” “Ah! dear Evelyn,” I replied, “I fear your imprudent coquetry has caused much suffering to-night.” “He is foolish to be so jealous,” replied she; “does he wish me to speak to no one, and to make myself disagreeable in society?” “But to remain so long with one man,” I remonstrated. “Oh! a _Prince_, you know; how could I refuse? Indeed, Melville is most unreasonably exacting, and you encourage him. I should detest so jealous a husband. No; if he cannot bear to see a woman admired, let him choose a plain wife.” Her levity vexed me, for I could not imagine a pleasure that necessarily entailed pain upon others. But then, remember, _I am not a beauty_. We sought Melville in every room; he was nowhere to be found. Evelyn was evidently piqued; she became _distraite_, and answered at random the various compliments and observations addressed to her. She refused all invitations to dance, and had Melville now seen her, the destiny of two lives might have been changed. How often do we of the weaker sex wrap ourselves in our woman’s pride and carefully conceal our true feelings from the being we respect and esteem most upon earth. How frequently even in our moments of apparent cruelty and caprice do we in the depth of our soul resolve one day by the devotion of a life to make full and ample amends for the momentary pangs we may have caused! Thrice happy they who may be permitted to put these good resolves into practice ere it be _too late_. We remained but a short time at the now distasteful ball. On the morrow Evelyn had a nervous headache and kept her room. Although she had given orders that no one was to be admitted, I perceived her look of disappointment when the name of Colonel Melville was missing from the pile of cards and notes brought by her maid in the evening to her bedside. The following day, being quite restored, she arose and dressed with more than usual care and good taste. I saw that she expected Melville would call, that being his last day in Florence, and I doubted not that when he came all would go well—and I might have to congratulate two happy affianced lovers. Evelyn was restless and abstracted. She tried to sing, but was out of voice; she took up a book, but did not get farther than the title-page; her eyes wandered perpetually towards the French _pendule_ on the mantel-piece; at last she rose impatiently, and stated her intention of driving to the Cascines, that loveliest of promenades, unsurpassed even by the far-famed “Bois de Boulogne.” At that moment there was a loud ring at the entrance door of the apartment. My heart beat in sympathy with that of Evelyn, who turned pale as death. The servant did not at once answer the door—five long minutes of suspense, and the ring was again repeated. At length the door was opened. A manly step was heard, and H. R. H. the Count of Syracuse entered.