“Well, dear boy, I can only say I wish from my heart that her nature was like her face.  She’s no favorite of mine, for your story has made me look on her with your eyes, and I never have spoken to her except in the most distant way; but I must say I think her face has in it a good deal of that gentleness which you mention.  Miss Fay treats her quite like an elder sister, and is deuced fond of her, too.  I can see that.  So she can’t be very fiendish to her.  Like loves like, you know, and the one that the child-angel loves ought to be a little of an angel herself, oughtn’t she?”

Dacres was silent for a long time.

“There’s that confounded Italian,” said he, “dangling forever at her heels—­the devil that saved her life.  He must be her accepted lover, you know.  He goes out riding beside the carriage.”

“Well, really, my dear fellow, she doesn’t seem overjoyed by his attentions.”

“Oh, that’s her art.  She’s so infernally deep.  Do you think she’d let the world see her feelings?  Never.  Slimy, Sir, and cold and subtle and venomous and treacherous—­a beautiful serpent.  Aha! isn’t that the way to hit her off?  Yes, a beautiful, malignant, venomous serpent, with fascination in her eyes, and death and anguish in her bite.  But she shall find out yet that others are not without power.  Confound her!”

“Well, now, by Jove! old boy, I think the very best thing you can do is to go away somewhere, and get rid of these troubles.”

“Go away!  Can I go away from my own thoughts?  Hawbury, the trouble is in my own heart.  I must keep near her.  There’s that Italian devil.  He shall not have her.  I’ll watch them, as I have watched them, till I find a chance for revenge.”

“You have watched them, then?” asked Hawbury, in great surprise.

“Yes, both of them.  I’ve seen the Italian prowling about where she lives.  I’ve seen her on her balcony, evidently watching for him.”

“But have you seen any thing more?  This is only your fancy.”

“Fancy!  Didn’t I see her herself standing on the balcony looking down.  I was concealed by the shadow of a fountain, and she couldn’t see me.  She turned her face, and I saw it in that soft, sweet, gentle beauty which she has cultivated so wonderfully.  I swear it seemed like the face of an angel, and I could have worshiped it.  If she could have seen my face in that thick shadow she would have thought I was an adorer of hers, like the Italian—­ha, ha!—­instead of a pursuer, and an enemy.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged if I can tell myself which you are, old boy; but, at any rate, I’m glad to be able to state that your trouble will soon be over.”

“How’s that?”

“She’s going away.”

“Going away!”

“Yes.”

“She! going away! where?”

“Back to England.”

“Back to England! why, she’s just come here.  What’s that for?”

“I don’t know.  I only know they’re all going home.  Well, you know, holy week’s over, and there is no object for them to stay longer.”