The American girl's beautiful head, crowned with roses, said "yes" with a gracious, frank bow. Vittorio Lante, unable to control himself, for a moment paled with joy, and twisted his yellow moustaches nervously. The friend would be profuse in her compliments.
"Merci, chère, merci," exclaimed Mabel Clarke frankly, in her limpid voice.
"Oh, thanks!" scarcely murmured Vittorio Lante.
Once alone, they looked at each other, enjoying those delicious moments intensely. Then, without speaking, in simultaneous action, they joined in the dance again, between the Countess of Durckeim, the Hungarian, a charming eccentric, and Beau de Hencke, who astonished the room, or they danced between the Comte de Roy and Miriam Jenkyns, who danced as if in one of Corot's pictures. Then the friend, maid or matron would rejoin her own set. With spiteful glances, correctly veiled, with slighting words and unfinished phrase, the chorus about Mabel Clarke began again:
"... Oh, these American girls, all the world is theirs. It is disgusting."
"... These American girls pretend to be strong, and as soon as they see an Italian's moustaches they fall."
"... These American girls; their dowry is always a story, a fable, a romance."
"... Dowry? A settlement, and uncertain, too."
"... Papa Clarke may go under."
"... He has gone under three times."