the place she has not outraged. She goes nowhere--of course,
_that_ she has a right to do--but she never returns a call, never even
sends a card. She went so far as to tell Mr. Pemberton, your predecessor
here, that she liked Albano for its savagery; that there was no one to
know was its chief charm for her."

"I saw her for the first time this morning," said L'Estrange, not liking
to involve himself in this censure.

"And she fascinated you, of course? I 'm told she does that with
every good-looking young fellow that comes in her way. She's a finished
coquette, they say. I don't know what that means, nor do I believe it
would have much success with me if I did know. All the coquetry she
bestows upon me is to set my ponies off in full gallop whenever she
overtakes me driving. She starts away in a sharp canter just behind
me, and John Bright fancies it a race, and away he goes too, and if Mr.
Needham was of the same mettle I don't know what would become of us. I'm
afraid, besides, she's a connection of mine. My mother, Lady Marion, was
cousin to one of the Delahunts of Kings Cromer. Would you mind taking
the reins for a while, John is fearfully rash to-day? Just sit where
you are, the near-side gives you the whip-hand for Needham. Ah! that's a
relief! Turn down the next road on your left. And so she never asked you
about your tenets--never inquired whether you were High Church or Low
Church or no church at all?"

"Pardon me, Sir Marcus; she was particularly anxious that I should
guard myself against Romish fascinations and advances."

"Ah, she knows them all! They thought they had secured her--indeed they
were full sure of it; but as she said to poor Mr. Pemberton, they found
they had hatched a duck. She was only flirting with Rome. The woman
would flirt with the Holy Father, sir, if she had a chance. There's
nothing serious, nothing real, nothing honest about her; but she
charmed _you_, for all that--I see it. I see it all; and you 're to take
moonlight rides with her over the Campagna. Ha, ha, ha! Haven't I
hit it? Poor old Pemberton--fifty-eight if he was an hour--got a bad
bronchitis with these same night excursions. Worse than that, he made
the place too hot for him. Mrs. Trumpler--an active woman Mrs. T., and
the eye of a hawk--would n't stand the 'few sweet moments,' as poor
Pemberton in his simplicity called them. She threatened him with a
general meeting, and a vote of censure, and a letter to the Bishop of