trifle the medium of a delicately-veiled homage, and a softly-hinted tenderness.
She tossed the note into the fire, and saw his name burn in the clear flame of a pine branch: why could he not have called instead of writing?
She was restless all day, and nothing pleased her:—not even M. de St. Louis, who did call and sat a long time, and was in his most delightful humour, and full of new anecdotes about everybody and everything:—but he did not mention Della Rocca.
The Duc found no topic that suited her. It was the Corso di Gala that afternoon, would she not go?
No: her horses hated masks, and she hated noise.
The Veglione on Sunday—would she not go to that?
No: those things were well enough in the days of Philippe d'Orléans, who invented them, but they were only now as stupid as they were vulgar; anybody was let in for five francs.
Did she like the new weekly journal, that was electrifying Paris?
