"... Of course, he has done his best to compromise her."
"... In any case, he won't be the first."
"... St. Moritz is a great marriage mart."
Every now and then the music was silent, and the dancers promenaded arm in arm or sat down for a moment, the girls with their hands full of flowers and their figures crossed with ribbons of brilliant colours, the _cotillon_ gifts. Then matron and maid would approach Mabel and Vittorio with a smile of satisfaction on their lips, asking in French, in English, in German:
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."
"... Mabel's dear papa is a faker of pig's flesh."
"... The mother is silly and vain. Poor Vittorio, what a father and mother-in-law!"
In a dance that became ever more lively, the first and second parts of that theatrical spectacle passed--the "Palace" _cotillon_. A more precipitous movement led the couples amidst gauze, tulle, ribbons, paper caps, streamers of fresh flowers, and Swiss bells of silver paper.
Now and then, during a moment's pause, a friend stopped beside Mabel and Vittorio, formulated a courteous inquiry, bowed at the reply, and offered his congratulations, seemingly complimentary and full of worldly good-nature. The orchestra gave forth its fervid recall; the couples danced anew in a hurried whirl. The friend would withdraw to form the centre of a group of men, old, middle-aged, and young, to whom he brought the news, and where the worldly, masculine choir, with disingenuous air, with an air as if it did not matter, occupied itself particularly with Vittorio Lante.