along at her side, she drew him gradually and easily into
conversation, with the consummate art of one who had brought the gift to
high perfection. She knew how to lead a timid talker on, to induce him
to venture on opinions, and even try and sustain them. She understood
well, besides, when and how, and how far, to offer a dissent, and at
what moments to appear to yield convictions to another. She possessed
all that graceful tact which supplies to mere chit-chat that much
of epigram that elevates, without pedantry; a degree of point that
stimulates, yet never wounds.

'The resemblance is marvellous!' whispered she to Alfieri, as he chanced
to ride up beside her; 'and not only in look, but actually in voice, and
in many a trick of gesture.'

'I knew you 'll see it!' cried the poet triumphantly.

'And can nothing be known about his history? Surely we could trace him.'

'I like the episode better as it is,' said he carelessly. 'Some vulgar
fact might, like a rude blow, demolish the whole edifice one's fancy had
nigh completed. There he stands now, handsome, gifted, and a mystery.
What could add to the combination?'

'The secret of an illustrious birth,' whispered the Marquise.

'I lean to the other view. I 'd rather fancy nature had some subtle
design of her own, some deep-wrought scheme to work out by this strange
counterfeit.'

'Yes, Gherardi,' as the youth looked suddenly around; 'yes, Gherardi,'
said she, 'we were talking of you, and of your likeness to one with whom
we were both acquainted.'

'If it be to that prince whose picture I saw last night,' replied he,
'I suspect the resemblance goes no further than externals. There can be,
indeed, little less like a princely station than mine.'

'Ah, boy!' broke in the poet, 'there will never be in all your history
as sad a fate as has befallen him.'

'I envy one whose fortune admits of reverses!' said Gerald peevishly.
'Better be storm-tossed than never launched.'

'I declare,' whispered the Marquise, 'as he spoke there, I could have
believed it was Monsieur de Saint George himself I was listening to.
Those little wayward bursts of temper----'

'Summer lightnings,' broke in Alfieri.

'Just so: they mean nothing, they herald nothing:

'"They flash like anger o'er the sky,
And then dissolve in tears."'

'True,' said the poet; 'but, harmless as these elemental changes seem,
we forget how they affect others--what blights they often leave in their