On the night of the dance the line of private carriages, remises and
cabs, lined the Viale Ariosto for a mile up and down before her gates,
where young artists of both sexes arrived on foot. By this time her
passion for Clementina was at its height. She had Maddalena bring her
out early in the evening, and made her dress under her own eye and her
French maid's, while Maddalena went back to comfort Mrs. Lander.
“I hated to leave her,” said Clementina. “I don't believe she's very
well.”
“Isn't she always ill?” demanded Miss Milray. She embraced the girl
again, as if once were not enough. “Clementina, if Mrs. Lander won't
give you to me, I'm going to steal you. Do you know what I want you
to do tonight? I want you to stand up with me, and receive, till the
dancing begins, as if it were your coming-out. I mean to introduce
everybody to you. You'll be easily the prettiest girl, there, and you'll
have the nicest gown, and I don't mean that any of your charms shall be
thrown away. You won't be frightened?”
“No, I don't believe I shall,” said Clementina. “You can tell me what to
do.”
The dress she wore was of pale green, like the light seen in thin woods;
out of it shone her white shoulders, and her young face, as if rising
through the verdurous light. The artists, to a man and woman, wished to
paint her, and severally told her so, during the evening which lasted
till morning. She was not surprised when Lord Lioncourt appeared, toward
midnight, and astonished Miss Milray by claiming acquaintance with
Clementina. He asked about Mrs. Lander, and whether she had got to
Florence without losing the way; he laughed but he seemed really to
care. He took Clementina out to supper, when the time came; and she
would have topped him by half a head as she leaned on his arm, if she
had not considerately drooped and trailed a little after him.
She could not know what a triumph he was making for her; and it was
merely part of the magic of the time that Mr. Ewins should come in
presently with one of the ladies. He had arrived in Florence that day,
and had to be brought unasked. He put on the effect of an old friend
with her; but Clementina's curiosity was chiefly taken with a tall
American, whom she thought very handsome. His light yellow hair was
brushed smooth across his forehead like a well-behaving boy's; he was
dressed like the other men, but he seemed not quite happy in his evening
coat, and his gloves which he smote together uneasily from time to time.
He appeared to think that somehow the radiant Clementina would know how
he felt; he did not dance, and he professed to have found himself at the
party by a species of accident. He told her that he was out in Europe
looking after a patent right that he had just taken hold of, and was
having only a middling good time. He pretended surprise to hear her say
that she was having a first-rate time, and he tried to reason her out of
it. He confessed that from the moment he came into the room he had made
up his mind to take her to supper, and had never been so disgusted in
his life as when he saw that little lord toddling off with her, and
trying to look as large as life. He asked her what a lord was like,
anyway, and he made her laugh all the time.
He told her his name, G. W. Hinkle, and asked whether she would be
likely to remember it if they ever met again.
Another man who interested her very much was a young Russian, with
curling hair and neat, small features who spoke better English than
she did, and said he was going to be a writer, but had not yet decided
whether to write in Russian or French; she supposed he had wanted her
advice, but he did not wait for it, or seem to expect it. He was very
much in earnest, while he fanned her, and his earnestness amused her as
much as the American's irony. He asked which city of America she came
from, and when she said none, he asked which part of America. She
answered New England, and he said, “Oh, yes, that is where they have the
conscience.” She did not know what he meant, and he put before her the
ideal of New England girlhood which he had evolved from reading American
novels. “Are you like that?” he demanded.
She laughed, and said, “Not a bit,” and asked him if he had ever met
such an American girl, and he said, frankly, No; the American girls were
all mercenary, and cared for nothing but money, or marrying titles. He
added that he had a title, but he would not wear it.
Clementina said she did not believe she cared for titles, and then
he said, “But you care for money.” She denied it, but as if she had
confessed it, he went on: “The only American that I have seen with that
conscience was a man. I will tell you of him, if you wish.”
He did not wait for her answer. “It was in Naples--at Pompeii. I saw
at the first glance that he was different from other Americans, and I
resolved to know him. He was there in company with a stupid boy, whose
tutor he was; and he told me that he was studying to be a minister of
the Protestant church. Next year he will go home to be consecrated. He
promised to pass through Florence in the spring, and he will keep
his word. Every act, every word, every thought of his is regulated by
conscience. It is terrible, but it is beautiful.” All the time, the
Russian was fanning Clementina, with every outward appearance of
flirtation. “Will you dance again? No? I should like to draw such a
character as his in a romance.”