"You look so nice," cried Bianca, who, in blue-striped silk and a high tortoiseshell comb, had made the very worst of herself.
Costanza, shrugging her shoulders, turned and rustled across the room.
I was surprised to see how handsome she looked. With her gown of richest brocade, made with a long train and Elizabethan collar, with the rubies gleaming in her dark hair and in the folds of her bodice, she seemed a figure well in harmony with the stately beauty of her surroundings. As though conscious of her effect, she moved over to the entrance of the inner room, and stood there framed in the arched doorway with its hangings of faded damask. Andrea went at once to her side.
"It's a long time since we have had a dance together, Contessima."
"A long, long time, Marchesino."
Then their voices fell, and there was nothing to be heard but a twittering exchange of whispers.
Bianca put her arm about my waist and whirled me round and round.
"We don't dance the same way," she said, releasing me after a brief but breathless interval.
Annunziata in apple-green brocade and a pearl stomacher was the next arrival, laughing heartily, and flourishing her lace handkerchief as she came. Behind her strolled her husband, handsome, indolent, and grave as a judge. The old Marchese brought up the rear.