the fact that Mrs. Prest had never happened to mention her to me, though
I had spent three weeks in Venice--under her nose, as it were--five
years before. Mrs. Prest had not mentioned this much to anyone; she
appeared almost to have forgotten she was there. Of course she had not
the responsibilities of an editor. It was no explanation of the
old woman's having eluded us to say that she lived abroad, for our
researches had again and again taken us (not only by correspondence
but by personal inquiry) to France, to Germany, to Italy, in which
countries, not counting his important stay in England, so many of the
too few years of Aspern's career were spent. We were glad to think at
least that in all our publishings (some people consider I believe that
we have overdone them), we had only touched in passing and in the most
discreet manner on Miss Bordereau's connection. Oddly enough, even if we
had had the material (and we often wondered what had become of it), it
would have been the most difficult episode to handle.

The gondola stopped, the old palace was there; it was a house of the
class which in Venice carries even in extreme dilapidation the dignified
name. "How charming! It's gray and pink!" my companion exclaimed;
and that is the most comprehensive description of it. It was not
particularly old, only two or three centuries; and it had an air not so
much of decay as of quiet discouragement, as if it had rather missed its
career. But its wide front, with a stone balcony from end to end of the
piano nobile or most important floor, was architectural enough, with the
aid of various pilasters and arches; and the stucco with which in the
intervals it had long ago been endued was rosy in the April afternoon.
It overlooked a clean, melancholy, unfrequented canal, which had
a narrow riva or convenient footway on either side. "I don't know
why--there are no brick gables," said Mrs. Prest, "but this corner has
seemed to me before more Dutch than Italian, more like Amsterdam than
like Venice. It's perversely clean, for reasons of its own; and though
you can pass on foot scarcely anyone ever thinks of doing so. It has the
air of a Protestant Sunday. Perhaps the people are afraid of the Misses
Bordereau. I daresay they have the reputation of witches."

I forget what answer I made to this--I was given up to two other
reflections. The first of these was that if the old lady lived in such a
big, imposing house she could not be in any so