I left my dressing-room, however, with a composed countenance and calm step, and entered my private salon just as its doors were flung open and "Signor Ferrari" was announced.

He entered smiling--his face was alight with good humor and glad anticipation--he looked handsomer than usual.
"Eccomi qua!" he cried, seizing my hands enthusiastically in his own.
"My dear conte, I am delighted to see you! What an excellent fellow you are! A kind of amiable Arabian Nights genius, who occupies himself in making mortals happy.

And how are you?
You look remarkably well!" "I can return the compliment," I said, gayly.

"You are more of an Antinous than ever." He laughed, well pleased, and sat down, drawing off his gloves and loosening his traveling overcoat.
"Well, I suppose plenty of cash puts a man in good humor, and therefore in good condition," he replied.

"But my dear fellow, you are dressed for dinner--quel preux chevalier! I am positively unfit to be in your company! You insisted that I should come to you directly, on my arrival, but I really must change my apparel.