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my fingers through it while I work, my attitude perhaps did not
strike a spectator as being so noble as I had imagined. I took
advantage of the anticlimax, however, to bring my aunt from the
balcony to the centre of the room, where Dora joined us.
Well, has mother prevailed?
My dear Dora, said I, politely, how can you imagine it could
possibly be a question of persuasion?
That might be taken two ways, said Dora. Like Palmerston's
'Dear Sir, I'll lose no time in reading your book.'
Dora is a minx.
I fear, said I, that my pedantic historical sense must venture
to correct you. It was Lord Beaconsfield.
Well, he got it from Palmerston, insisted Dora.
You children must not quarrel, interposed my aunt, in the fond,
maternal tone which I find peculiarly unpleasant. Marcus will
see how his engagements stand, and let us know in a day or two.
When do you propose to start? I asked.
Quite soon. On the 20th.
I will let you know finally in good time, said I.
As I accompanied them downstairs, I heard a door at the end of
the passage open, and turning I saw Carlotta's pretty head thrust
past the jamb, and her eyes fixed on the visitors. I motioned
her back, sharply, and my aunt and Dora made an unsuspecting
exit. The noise of their departing chariot wheels was music to
my ears.
Carlotta came rushing out of her sittingroom followed by Miss
Griggs, protesting.
Who those fine ladies? she cried, with her hands on my sleeve.
Who _are_ those ladies? I corrected.
Who _are_ those ladies? Carlotta repeated, like a demure
parrot.
They are friends of mine.
Then came the eternal question.
Is she married, the young one?
Miss Griggs, said I, kindly instil into Carlotta's mind the
fact that no young English woman ever thinks about marriage until
she is actually engaged, and then her thoughts do not go beyond
the wedding.
But is she? persisted Carlotta.
I wish to heaven she was, I laughed, imprudently, for then she
would not come and spoil my morning's work.
Oh, she wants to marry you, said Carlotta.
Miss Griggs, said I, Carlotta will resume her studies, and I
went upstairs, sighing for the beautiful tower with a lift
outside.
July 14th.
Pasquale came in about nine o'clock, and found us playing cards.
He is a bird of passage with no fixed abode. Some weeks ago he
gave up his chambers in St. James's, and went to live with an
actor friend, a grasswidower, who has a house in the St. John's
Wood Road close by. Why Pasquale, who loves the palpitating

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