engaging bride in white mousseline de soie over silk, a white poke-bonnet garlanded with orange-blossom, white mittens and white kid slippers. The bridegroom seemed as usual, gray, rather impassive, but no one took much notice of him. The afternoon of her wedding found Lina practising, and the next day she was rehearsing at the Opera with the other figurantes.
Angellini, discussing the marriage afterward with two cronies who were, like herself, retired and pensioned ballerinas, remarked confidentially:
"The strangest ménage in Milan is that of Rosing and the young Varsovina. Work, work, and then more work. And yet, figure to yourselves that he loves her—he actually loves that gosse who might be, to look at, no more than fifteen!"
"If he loves her, then he is a fooi. Otherwise the arrangement, from a business point of view, can only be advantageous to himself."
"But he loves her!" Angellini repeated again with tremendous emphasis, waving her hands.
"And the little Varsovina? With whom is she in love?" "Ah!" Angellini dropped her voice to a sepulchral whisper and announced dramatically: "She's sly, that little one! Ambitious, too. I think she loves only her own dancing, but who can teil? Let us wait until she has turned a few heads and then we will see of what her own heart is made!"
Tea, more tea, with heaps of cream and sugar, three dyed old heads nodaing close together, more gossip, more tea, more confidences. The three might have been young and fascinating as in the past, chattering in the dressingroom they had shared for so long together. Their voices sank to whispers:
"Varsovina . . . Rosing . . . Varsovina."