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CHAPTER IV.
"What do you think of Della Rocca, Hilda," asked Madame Mila at the same hour that night, toasting her pink satin slipper before her dressing-room fire.
Lady Hilda yawned, unclasping her rivière of sapphires.
"He has a very good manner. There is some truth in what Olga Schouvaloff always maintains, that after an Italian all other men seem boors."
"I am sure Maurice is not a boor!" said the Countess, pettishly.
"Oh no, my dear; he parts his hair in the middle, talks the last new, unintelligible, aristocratic argot, and has the charms of every actress and dancer in Paris catalogued clearly in
