in in diplomacy?"

"It looked so very like idling," said I, laughingly, and endeavouring to
assume something of her own easy tone.

"So it is. But what better can one have, after all?" said she, with a
faint sigh.

"When they are happy," added I, stealing a glance at her beneath my
eyelids. She turned away, however, before I had succeeded, and I could
merely mark that her breathing was quick and hurried.

"I hope you have no grudge towards Favancourt?" said she hastily, and
with a manner that shewed how difficult it was to disguise agitation.
"He would be delighted to see you again! He is always talking of your
success in the House, and often prophesies the most brilliant
advancement for you."

"I have outlived resentment," said I, in a low whisper: "would that I
could add, other feelings were as easily forgotten."

Not at once catching my meaning, she turned her full and lustrous eyes
upon me, and then suddenly aware of my words, or reading the explanation
in my own looks, she blushed deeply, and after a pause said,

"And what are your plans now? do you remain here some time?"

"No, I am trying to reach Italy. It has become as classic to die there
nowadays, as once it was to live in that fair land."

"Italy!" interrupted she, blushing still deeper. "Favancourt is now
asking for a mission there--Naples is vacant."

This time I succeeded in catching her eyes, but she hastily withdrew
them, and we were both silent.

"Have you been to the Opera yet?" said she, with a voice full of all its
habitual softness.

"You forget," said I, smiling, "that I am an invalid: besides, I only
arrived here last night."

"Oh, I am sure that much will not fatigue you. The Duc de Blancard has
given us his box while we stay here, and we shall always have a place
for you; and I pray you to come; if not for the music, for my sake," she
added hastily: "for I own nothing can be possibly more stupid than
our nightly visitors. I hear of nothing but ministerial intrigue, the
tactics of the _centre droit_ and the opposition, with a little very
tiresome gossip of the Tuileries; and Favancourt thinks himself
political, when he is only prosy. Now, I long for a little real
chit-chat about London and our own people. _Apropos_, what became of
Lady Frances Gunnington? did she really marry the young cornet of
dragoons and sail for India?"

"The saddest is to be told: he was killed in the Punjaub, and she is now
coming home a widow."

"How