Now Riccabocca, like most wise men, especially if Italians, was by no means inclined to the credulous view of human nature.  Indeed, he was in the habit of detecting self-interest in the simplest actions of his fellow-creatures.  And when the Parson thus invited him to pot luck, he smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for Mrs. Dale enjoyed the reputation of having what her friends styled “her little tempers.”  And, as well-bred ladies rarely indulge in “little tempers” in the presence of a third person, not of the family, so Dr. Riccabocca instantly concluded that he was invited to stand between the pot and the luck!  Nevertheless—­as he was fond of trout, and a much more good-natured man than he ought to have been according to his principles-he accepted the hospitality; but he did so with a sly look from over his spectacles, which brought a blush into the guilty cheeks of the Parson.  Certainly Riccabocca had for once guessed right in his estimate of human motives.

The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and entered the parsonage lawn.  Two dogs, that seemed to have sat on watch for their master, sprang toward him barking; and the sound drew the notice of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out from the sash window which opened on the lawn.  Now, O reader!  I know that in thy secret heart, thou art chuckling over the want of knowledge in the sacred arcana of the domestic hearth, betrayed by the author; thou art saying to thyself, “A pretty way to conciliate little tempers, indeed, to add to the offense of spoiling the fish, the crime of bringing an unexpected friend to eat it.  Pot luck, quotha, when the pot’s boiled over this half hour!”

But, to thy utter shame and confusion, O reader, learn that both the author and Parson Dale knew very well what they were about.

Dr. Riccabocca was the special favorite of Mrs. Dale, and the only person in the whole county who never put her out by dropping in.  In fact, strange though it may seem at first glance, Dr. Riccabocca had that mysterious something about him which we of his own sex can so little comprehend, but which always propitiates the other.  He owed this, in part, to his own profound but hypocritical policy; for he looked upon woman as the natural enemy to man—­against whom it was necessary to be always on the guard:  whom it was prudent to disarm by every species of fawning, servility, and abject complaisance.  He owed it also, in part, to the compassionate and heavenly nature of the angels whom his thoughts thus villanously traduced—­for women like one whom they can pity without despising; and there was something in Signer Riccabocca’s poverty, in his loneliness, in his exile, whether voluntary or compelled, that excited pity; while, despite the threadbare coat, the red umbrella, and the wild hair, he had, especially when addressing ladies, that air of gentleman and cavalier, which is or was more innate in an educated