Happening to speak of Mrs. Lewis, I saw that the corners of Mrs. Jones’s mouth went immediately down, and Mrs. Smith’s eyebrows immediately up.  Of course, no woman is going to stand that; and I inquired minutely enough to satisfy myself either that Mrs. Lewis was very peculiar, or that a boarding-house was not a favorable atmosphere for character.  My husband, to whom I told all they said, considered “the abundant leisure from family-cares which these ladies enjoyed as giving them opportunities for investigation which they carried to excess.”

“But think of Gus not being Mr. Lewis’s child!” said I, after faithfully relating all I had heard.

“He looks like an Italian.  I always thought so.  But Lewis seems very fond of him.”

“Yes, they said so.  But that the mother cared nothing for him, nor for her other children, who are off in Genesee County somewhere.”

“For health, doubtless,” said my “he,” dryly.

“And the way they talked of Mr. Remington! calling him George, and more than insinuating that she likes too well to be at the Oaks,—­that is his place.  They say she has been there all the time Mr. Lewis has been gone!”

“Mr. Remington has been gone too, as you and I can testify,” more dryly.

“So he has.  I wish I had thought to tell them so.”

I hadn’t been in a boarding-house for nothing.

“It was like Lewis to take her as he did.  Very noble and generous, too, even supposing he loved her.  I dare say he does.  Is Montalli dead?”

“I don’t know.  I think so.  At all events, they were divorced, and for his cruelty.  Only think of a lady, a young lady, not sixteen, and the darling and idol at home, being beaten and pounded!  Ugh! what horrid creatures Italians are!”

“And you say Lewis happened to be in Mobile at the time?”

“Yes, and fell in love with her,—­she, scarcely eighteen, and to have had this shocking experience!  I don’t like to tell you how much these ladies have hinted about her, but enough to make me feel as if I were reading the “Mysteries of Udolpho,” instead of hearing of a live woman, out of a book, and belonging to our own time.”

“Very likely she may have amused herself at the expense of their credulity.  I have seen women do that, just for sport, and to see how much people would believe.  It is a dangerous game to play.”

Mr. Lewis came to dinner, and brought me a little three-cornered note from his wife, written with much grace and elegance, so far as the composition was concerned.  It was sealed with a dove flying, and expressed her thanks for my bringing the “sweet remembranser” from her beloved child, and so on, expecting to see me the next day at the Oaks.

The surprising part of the note was, that the writing was scrawled, and the words misspelt in a manner that would have disgraced the youngest member of a town-school in Weston.  She had “grate” pleasure, and spoke of my “truble” in a way that made me feel as if I should see a child.