These memories rushed now fully to his mind, and, assuredly, added no
sentiment of pleasure to his expectation of the meeting. More than once
did he come to a halt, and deliberate whether, seeing how unpleasant
such an interview must prove, he need incur the pain of it. "I could
write to her, or I could send Lizzy to say that I was confined to bed,
and ill. Would n't that be a flare up! By Jove! if I could only see the
match as it came off between them, I 'd do _that_. Not but I know Georgy
would win; she 'd come out so strong as 'Grande Dame;' the half-bred 'un
would have no chance. Still, there would be a race, and a close one, for
Lizzy has her own turn of speed; and if she had the breeding--" And as
he got thus far in his ruminations, he had reached the Palazzo Gondi,
where his sister-in-law lived. With a sort of sullen courage he rang the
bell, and was shown in; her Ladyship was dressing, but would be down in
a moment.

Beecher had now some minutes alone, and he passed them scrutinizing the
room and its appurtenances. All was commoner and more homely than he
looked for. Not many indications of comfort; scarcely any of luxury.
What might this mean? Was her settlement so small as to exact this
economy, or was it a voluntary saving? If so, it was the very reverse
of all her former tastes, for she was essentially one who cultivated
splendor and expense. This problem was still puzzling him, when the door
opened, and she entered. He advanced rapidly to meet her, and saluted
her on each cheek. There was a strange affectation of cordiality on each
side. Prize-fighters shake hands ere they double them up into catapults
for each other's heads; but the embrace here was rather more like the
kiss the victim on the scaffold bestows upon his executioner.

Seated side by side on the sofa, for a few minutes neither uttered a
word; at last she said, in a calm, low voice, "We had hoped to see you
before this,--_he_ looked anxiously for your coming."

Beecher heaved a heavy sigh; in that unhappy delay was comprised all the
story of his calamities. And how to begin--how to open the narrative?

"I wrote as many as five letters," resumed she; "some addressed to
Fordyce's, others to the care of Mr. Davenport Dunn."

"Not one of them ever reached me."

"Very strange, indeed," said she, with the smile of faintest
incredulity; "letters so seldom miscarry nowadays. Stranger, still,
that none of your other correspondents should have appr