ght it better to come
myself," said Mr. Glascock. "You did not wish to see Sir Marmaduke?"

"Certainly not Sir Marmaduke," said Trevelyan, with a look of anger
that was almost grotesque.

"And you thought it better that Mrs. Trevelyan should not come."

"Yes;--I thought it better;--but not from any feeling of anger
towards her. If I could welcome my wife here, Mr. Glascock, without
a risk of wrath on her part, I should be very happy to receive her.
I love my wife, Mr. Glascock. I love her dearly. But there have been
misfortunes. Never mind. There is no reason why I should trouble you
with them. Let us go in to breakfast. After your drive you will have
an appetite."

Poor Mr. Glascock was afraid to decline to sit down to the meal which
was prepared for him. He did mutter something about having already
eaten, but Trevelyan put this aside with a wave of his hand as he led
the way into a spacious room, in which had been set out a table with
almost a sumptuous banquet. The room was very bare and comfortless,
having neither curtains nor matting, and containing not above half
a dozen chairs. But an effort had been made to give it an air of
Italian luxury. The windows were thrown open, down to the ground, and
the table was decorated with fruits and three or four long-necked
bottles. Trevelyan waved with his hand towards an arm-chair, and Mr.
Glascock had no alternative but to seat himself. He felt that he was
sitting down to breakfast with a madman; but if he did not sit down,
the madman might perhaps break out into madness. Then Trevelyan went
to the door and called aloud for Catarina. "In these remote places,"
said he, "one has to do without the civilisation of a bell. Perhaps
one gains as much in quiet as one loses in comfort." Then Catarina
came with hot meats and fried potatoes, and Mr. Glascock was
compelled to help himself.

"I am but a bad trencherman myself," said Trevelyan, "but I shall
lament my misfortune doubly if that should interfere with your
appetite." Then he got up and poured out wine into Mr. Glascock's
glass. "They tell me that it comes from the Baron's vineyard," said
Trevelyan, alluding to the wine-farm of Ricasoli, "and that there is
none better in Tuscany. I never was myself a judge of the grape, but
this to me is as palatable as any of the costlier French wines. How
grand a thing would wine really be, if it could make glad the heart
of man. How truly would one worship Bacchus if he could make one