Donna Ippolita's lover, a little pale, cried one last sum. Sperelli named a higher--there was a moment's silence. The auctioneer looked from one to the other, then he raised his hammer and slowly, still looking at the two--'Going--going--gone!'
The Death's-head fell to the Conte d'Ugenta. A murmur ran round the room. A sudden flood of light burst through the windows, lit up the gleaming gold backgrounds of the triptychs, and played over the sorrowfully patient brow of the Siennese Madonna and the glittering steel scales on the Princess di Ferentino's little grey hat.
'When is the goblet coming on?' asked the princess impatiently.
Her friends consulted the catalogue. There was no hope of the goblet for that day. The unusual amount of competition made the sale go slowly. There was still a long list of smaller articles--cameos, medallions, coins. Several antiquaries and Prince Stroganow disputed each piece hotly. The rest felt considerably disappointed. The Duchess of Scerni rose to go.
'Good-bye, Sperelli,' she said. 'I shall see you again this evening--perhaps.'
She turned away without replying, and took leave of the others. Many of them followed her example and left with her. The young men were making fun of the 'spectacle manqué.' The Marchesa d'Ateleta laughed, but the princess was evidently thoroughly out of temper. The footmen waiting in the hall called for the carriages as if at the door of a theatre or concert hall.
'Are you not coming on to Laura Miano's?' Francesca asked the duchess.
She waited on the pavement for her brougham to come up. The rain was passing over; patches of blue were beginning to appear between the great banks of white cloud; a shaft of sunshine made the wet flags glitter. Flooded by this pale rose splendour, her magnificent furs falling in straight symmetrical folds to her feet, Elena was very beautiful. As Andrea caught a glimpse of the inside of her brougham, all cosily lined with white satin like a little boudoir, with its shining silver foot-warmer for the comfort of her small feet, his dream of the preceding evening came back to him--'Oh, to be there with her alone, and feel the warm perfume of her breath mingling with the violets--behind the mist-dimmed windows through which one hardly sees the muddy streets, the gray houses, the dull crowd!'