The Ball at the Villa

"Do you know the Duchessa?" asked Flora Desimone.

"Yes." It was three o'clock the same afternoon. The duke sat with his wife
under the vine-clad trattoria on the quay. Between his knees he held his
Panama hat, which was filled with ripe hazelnuts. He cracked them
vigorously with his strong white teeth and filliped the broken shells into
the lake, where a frantic little fish called agoni darted in and about
the slowly sinking particles. "Why?" The duke was not any grayer than he
had been four or five months previous, but the characteristic expression
of his features had undergone a change. He looked less Jovian than
Job-like.

"I want you to get an invitation to her ball at the Villa Rosa to-night."

"We haven't been here twenty-four hours!" in mild protest.

"What has that to do with it? It doesn't make any difference."

"I suppose not." He cracked and ate a nut. "Where is he?"

"He has gone to Milan. He left hurriedly. He's a fool," impatiently.

"Not necessarily. Foolishness is one thing and discretion is another. Oh,
well; his presence here was not absolutely essential. Presently he will
marry and settle down and be a good boy." The next nut was withered, and
he tossed it aside. "Is her voice really gone?"

"No." Flora leaned with her arms upon the railing and glared at the
wimpling water. She had carried the Apple of Discord up the hill and down
again. Nora had been indisposed.