“Yes,—­and he is becoming rather an alarming personage in England, so I hear,—­” returned the Abbe—­“He writes books that are distinctly dangerous, because true.  He wants to upset shams like our Socialist writer Gys Grandit.  Gys Grandit, you know, will never be satisfied till, like Rousseau, he has brought about another French Revolution.  He is only a peasant, they say, but he writes with the pen of a prophet.  And this Englishman is of the same calibre,—­only his work is directed against religious hypocrisies more than social ones.  I daresay that is why I always feel so uneasy in his presence!” And Vergniaud laughed lightly.  “For the rest, he is a brilliant creature enough, and thoroughly manly.  The other evening at the Club that little Vicomte de Lorgne was chattering in his usual offensive manner about women, and Leigh astonished everyone by the way in which he pulled him up.  There was almost a very pretty quarrel,—­but a stray man happened to mention casually,—­that Leigh was considered one of the finest shots in England.  After that the dear Vicomte vanished, and did not return.”

Angela laughed.

“Poor de Lorgne!  Yes—­I have heard that Mr. Leigh excels in everything that is distinctly English—­riding, shooting, and all that kind of thing.  He is not effeminate.”

“Few Englishmen are,” said the Abbe,—­“And yet to my mind there is something not altogether English in this man.  He has none of the heavy British mental and physical stolidity.  He is strong and muscular certainly,—­but also light and supple,—­and with that keen, intellectual delicate face of his, he is more of the antique Greek type than like a son of Les Isles Sans-Soleil.”

“Sans-Soleil,” echoed Angela, “But there is plenty of sunshine in England!”

“Is there?  Well, I have been unfortunate,—­I have never seen any,—­” and the Abbe gave a shrug of half regret, half indifference.  “It is very curious the effect that this so brave England has upon me!  In crossing to its shores I suffer of course from the mal de mer—­then when I arrive exhausted to the white cliffs, it is generally raining—­then I take train to London, where it is what is called black fog; and I find all the persons that I meet either with a cold, or going to have a cold, or just recovering from a cold!  It is not lively—­the very funerals are dull.  And you—­this is not your experience?”

“No—­frankly I cannot say it is,” replied Angela, “I have seen rain and fog in Rome that cannot be surpassed for wretchedness anywhere.  Italy is far more miserable in cold weather than England.  I passed a summer once in England, and it was to me like a glimpse of Paradise.  I never saw so many flowers—­I never heard so many birds—­(you know in Italy we kill all the singing birds and eat them), and I never met so many kind and gentle people.”