ron?
This poor Duchess--for so she called herself--was just such another. A
woman made for comfort, housewifery, and motherhood, and by no means
for racing about Europe in charge of a disreputable parent. I could
picture her settled equably on a garden seat with a lapdog and
needlework, blinking happily over green lawns and mildly rating an
errant gardener. I could fancy her sitting in a summer parlour, very
orderly and dainty, writing lengthy epistles to a tribe of nieces. I
could see her marshalling a household in the family pew, or riding
serenely in the family coach behind fat bay horses. But here, on an
inn staircase, with a false name and a sad air of mystery, she was
woefully out of place. I noted little wrinkles forming in the corners
of her eyes, and the ravages of care beginning in the plump rosiness of
her face. Be sure there was nothing appealing in her mien. She spoke
with the air of a great lady, to whom the world is matter only for an
afterthought. It was the facts that appealed and grew poignant from
her courage.

"There is another claim upon your good nature," she said. "Doubtless
you were awoke last night by Oliphant's playing upon the pipes. I
rebuked the landlord for his insolence in protesting, but to you, a
gentleman and a friend, an explanation is due. My father sleeps ill,
and your conversation seems to have cast him into a train of sad
memories. It has been his habit on such occasions to have the pipes
played to him, since they remind him of friends and happier days. It
is a small privilege for an old man, and he does not claim it often."

I declared that the music had only pleased, and that I would welcome
its repetition. Where upon she left me with a little bow and an
invitation to join them that day at dinner, while I departed into the
town on my own errands. I returned before midday, and was seated at an
arbour in the garden, busy with letters, when there hove in sight the
gaunt figure of Oliphant. He hovered around me, if such a figure can
be said to hover, with the obvious intention of addressing me. The
fellow had caught my fancy, and I was willing to see more of him. His
face might have been hacked out of grey granite, his clothes hung
loosely on his spare bones, and his stockined shanks would have done no
discredit to Don Quixote. There was no dignity in his air, only a
steady and enduring sadness. Here, thought I, is the one of the
establishment who most commonly m