Rowland had already asked Madame Grandoni what, to her perception, was the present state of matters between Christina and Roderick; and he now repeated his question with some earnestness of apprehension.  “The girl is so deucedly dramatic,” he said, “that I don’t know what coup de theatre she may have in store for us.  Such a stroke was her turning Catholic; such a stroke would be her some day making her courtesy to a disappointed world as Princess Casamassima, married at midnight, in her bonnet.  She might do—­she may do—­something that would make even more starers!  I ’m prepared for anything.”

“You mean that she might elope with your sculptor, eh?”

“I ’m prepared for anything!”

“Do you mean that he ’s ready?”

“Do you think that she is?”

“They ’re a precious pair!  I think this.  You by no means exhaust the subject when you say that Christina is dramatic.  It ’s my belief that in the course of her life she will do a certain number of things from pure disinterested passion.  She ’s immeasurably proud, and if that is often a fault in a virtuous person, it may be a merit in a vicious one.  She needs to think well of herself; she knows a fine character, easily, when she meets one; she hates to suffer by comparison, even though the comparison is made by herself alone; and when the estimate she may have made of herself grows vague, she needs to do something to give it definite, impressive form.  What she will do in such a case will be better or worse, according to her opportunity; but I imagine it will generally be something that will drive her mother to despair; something of the sort usually termed ‘unworldly.’”

Rowland, as he was taking his leave, after some further exchange of opinions, rendered Miss Light the tribute of a deeply meditative sigh.  “She has bothered me half to death,” he said, “but somehow I can’t manage, as I ought, to hate her.  I admire her, half the time, and a good part of the rest I pity her.”

“I think I most pity her!” said Madame Grandoni.

This enlightened woman came the next day to call upon the two ladies from Northampton.  She carried their shy affections by storm, and made them promise to drink tea with her on the evening of the morrow.  Her visit was an era in the life of poor Mrs. Hudson, who did nothing but make sudden desultory allusions to her, for the next thirty-six hours.  “To think of her being a foreigner!” she would exclaim, after much intent reflection, over her knitting; “she speaks so beautifully!” Then in a little while, “She was n’t so much dressed as you might have expected.  Did you notice how easy it was in the waist?  I wonder if that ’s the fashion?” Or, “She ’s very old to wear a hat; I should never dare to wear a hat!” Or, “Did you notice her hands?—­very pretty hands for such a stout person.  A great many rings, but nothing very handsome.  I suppose they are hereditary.”  Or, “She ’s certainly not handsome, but