cis himself, good
humoured because he was happy, doubly exerted himself to ingratiate
himself with Lady Annabel, and felt every day that he was advancing.
Venetia always smiled upon him, and praised him delightfully for his
delightful conduct.

In the evening, Herbert would read to them the manuscript poem of
Cadurcis, the fruits of his Attic residence and Grecian meditations.
The poet would sometimes affect a playful bashfulness on this head,
perhaps not altogether affected, and amuse Venetia, in a whisper, with
his running comments; or exclaim with an arch air, 'I say, Venetia,
what would Mrs. Montague and the Blues give for this, eh? I can fancy
Hannah More in decent ecstasies!'

CHAPTER VIII.

'It is an odd thing, my dear Herbert,' said Cadurcis to his friend, in
one of these voyages, 'that destiny should have given you and me the
same tutor.'

'Masham!' said Herbert, smiling. 'I tell you what is much more
singular, my dear Cadurcis; it is, that, notwithstanding being our
tutor, a mitre should have fallen upon his head.'

'I am heartily glad,' said Cadurcis. 'I like Masham very much; I
really have a sincere affection for him. Do you know, during my
infernal affair about those accursed Monteagles, when I went to the
House of Lords, and was cut even by my own party; think of that, the
polished ruffians! Masham was the only person who came forward and
shook hands with me, and in the most marked manner. A bishop, too! and
the other side! that was good, was it not? But he would not see his
old pupil snubbed; if he had waited ten minutes longer, he might have
had a chance of seeing him massacred. And then they complain of my
abusing England, my mother country; a step-dame, I take it.'

'Masham is in politics a Tory, in religion ultra-orthodox,' Herbert.
'He has nothing about him of the latitudinarian; and yet he is the
most amiable man with whom I am acquainted. Nature has given him a
kind and charitable heart, which even his opinions have not succeeded
in spoiling.'

'Perhaps that is exactly what he is saying of us two at this moment,'
said Cadurcis. 'After all, what is truth? It changes as you change
your clime or your country; it changes with the century. The truth of
a hundred years ago is not the truth of the present day, and yet it
may have been as genuine. Truth at Rome is not the truth of London,
and both of them differ from the truth of Constantinople. For my part,
I believe everything.'

'Wel