“Eighteen months; she went back to her mother’s, to be married as it was said, but I don’t know to whom.”

“Your news interests me deeply.”

The landlord brought me the bill, and I saw a note of three pains which her husband had spent on himself and his horse.

“He said you would pay,” observed the landlord.

The Englishwoman blushed.  I paid the bill, and we went on.

I was delighted to see her blushing, it proved she was not a party to her husband’s proceedings.

I was burning with the desire to know how she had left London and had met the Frenchman, and why they were going to Rome; but I did not want to trouble her by my questions, and I loved her too well already to give her any pain.

We had a three hours’ drive before us, so I turned the conversation to Sophie, with whom she had been at school.

“Was Miss Nancy Steyne there when you left?” said I.

The reader may remember how fond I had been of this young lady, who had dined with me, and whom I had covered with kisses, though she was only twelve.

My companion sighed at hearing the name of Nancy, and told me that she had left.

“Was she pretty when you knew her?”

“She was a beauty, but her loveliness was a fatal gift to her.  Nancy was a close friend of mine, we loved each other tenderly; and perhaps our sympathy arose from the similarity of the fate in store for us.  Nancy, too loving and too simple, is now, perhaps, even more unhappy than myself.”

“More unhappy?  What do you mean?”

“Alas!”

“Is it possible that fate has treated you harshly?  Is it possible that you can be unhappy with such a letter of commendation as nature has given you?”

“Alas! let us speak of something else.”

Her countenance was suffused with emotion.  I pitied her in secret, and led the conversation back to Nancy.

“Tell me why you think Nancy is unhappy.”

“She ran away with a young man she loved; they despaired of gaining the parents’ consent to the match.  Since her flight nothing has been heard of her, and you see I have some reason to fear that she is unhappy.”

“You are right.  I would willingly give my life if it could be the saving of her.”

“Where did you know her?”

“In my own house.  She and Sophie dined with me, and her father came in at the end of the meal.”

“Now I know who you are.  How often have I heard Sophie talking of you.  Nancy loved you as well as her father.  I heard that you had gone to Russia, and had fought a duel with a general in Poland.  Is this true?  How I wish I could tell dear Sophie all this, but I may not entertain such hopes now.”

“You have heard the truth about me; but what should prevent you writing what you like to England?  I take a lively interest in you, trust in me, and I promise you that you shall communicate with whom you please.”