named to him.  It wasn’t a thing for a present to a person she was fond of, for she wouldn’t wish to give a present that would bring ill luck.  That had come to him—­so that he couldn’t rest, and he should feel better now that he had told her.  His having led her to act in ignorance was what he should have been ashamed of; and, if she would pardon, gracious lady as she was, all the liberties he had taken, she might make of the bowl any use in life but that one.

It was after this that the most extraordinary incident of all, of course, had occurred—­his pointing to the two photographs with the remark that those were persons he knew, and that, more wonderful still, he had made acquaintance with them, years before, precisely over the same article.  The lady, on that occasion, had taken up the fancy of presenting it to the gentleman, and the gentleman, guessing and dodging ever so cleverly, had declared that he wouldn’t for the world receive an object under such suspicion.  He himself, the little man had confessed, wouldn’t have minded—­about them; but he had never forgotten either their talk or their faces, the impression altogether made by them, and, if she really wished to know, now, what had perhaps most moved him, it was the thought that she should ignorantly have gone in for a thing not good enough for other buyers.  He had been immensely struck—­that was another point—­with this accident of their turning out, after so long, friends of hers too:  they had disappeared, and this was the only light he had ever had upon them.  He had flushed up, quite red, with his recognition, with all his responsibility—­had declared that the connexion must have had, mysteriously, something to do with the impulse he had obeyed.  And Maggie had made, to her husband, while he again stood before her, no secret of the shock, for herself, so suddenly and violently received.  She had done her best, even while taking it full in the face, not to give herself away; but she wouldn’t answer—­no, she wouldn’t—­for what she might, in her agitation, have made her informant think.  He might think what he would—­there had been three or four minutes during which, while she asked him question upon question, she had doubtless too little cared.  And he had spoken, for his remembrance, as fully as she could have wished; he had spoken, oh, delightedly, for the “terms” on which his other visitors had appeared to be with each other, and in fact for that conviction of the nature and degree of their intimacy under which, in spite of precautions, they hadn’t been able to help leaving him.  He had observed and judged and not forgotten; he had been sure they were great people, but no, ah no, distinctly, hadn’t “liked” them as he liked the Signora Principessa.  Certainly—­she had created no vagueness about that—­he had been in possession of her name and address, for sending her both her cup and her account.  But the others he had only, always, wondered about—­he had been sure they would never come back.  And