white
feather; but those things I did not remember till I was gone to bed and
was thinking of her. It is a hard business for a lover to speak as he
should of the maid who first taught him his lessons in that art; but I
think it was her silence, and the look in her eyes, that embodied for me
at first what I found so dear afterwards. She was neither tall nor
short; she was very slender; and she moved without noise. All these
things I write down now from my remembrance of the observations that I
made afterwards. It would be foolish to say that I loved her so soon as
I saw her; for no man does that in reality, whatever he may say of it
later; I was aware only that here was a maid whose presence made the
little room very pleasant to me, and with whom taking supper would be
something more than the swallowing of food and drink.

The rooms of my lodging were good enough, as I saw when my Cousin Tom
flung open the doors to show me them all. They were three in number:
this room into which we had first come from the stairs was hung in green
damask, with candles in sconces between the panels of the stuff; the
door on the left opened into the room where my Cousin Dorothy would lie,
with her maid; and that on the right my Cousin Tom and I would share
between us. The windows of all three looked out upon the piazza.

He said a great number of times that he was sorry that he had brought up
his daughter without giving me warning; but that the maid had set her
heart on it and would take no denial. (This I presently discovered to be
wholly false.) For a week, he said, and no more, I should be
discommoded; and after that, when I had come back from Hare Street, I
should be able to entertain my friends in peace.

I answered him, of course, with the proper compliments; but I liked his
manner less than ever. He was too boisterous, I thought, on a first
meeting; and too hearty in his expressions of goodwill. When we were set
down to supper, he began again, with what I thought a good deal of
indiscretion.

"So you are come from Rome!" he said loudly, "and from a monastery too,
as I hear. Well, no man loves a monk more than I do--in their
monasteries; but I am glad you are not to be one. We will teach him
better here--eh, Dolly, my dear?"

It was only my man James who was in the room when he spoke; yet as soon
as he was gone out to fetch another dish I thought I had best say a
word.

"Cousin," I said, "with your leave; I think it best not