as accurately as the watch of the drowned man marks his minute.  Lady Camper had gone to Italy, and was in communication with her nephew:  Reginald was not further explicit.  His legs were very prominent in his despair, and his fingers frequently performed the part of blunt combs; consequently the General was impressed by his passion for Elizabeth.  The girl who, if she was often meditative, always met his eyes with a smile, and quietly said ‘Yes, papa,’ and ‘No, papa,’ gave him little concern as to the state of her feelings.  Yet everybody said now that she was unhappy.  Mrs. Barcop, the widow, raised her voice above the rest.  So attentive was she to Elizabeth that the General had it kindly suggested to him, that some one was courting him through his daughter.  He gazed at the widow.  Now she was not much past thirty; and it was really singular—­he could have laughed—­thinking of Mrs. Barcop set him persistently thinking of Lady Camper.  That is to say, his mad fancy reverted from the lady of perhaps thirty-five to the lady of seventy.

Such, thought he, is genius in a woman!  Of his neighbours generally, Mrs. Baerens, the wife of a German merchant, an exquisite player on the pianoforte, was the most inclined to lead him to speak of Lady Camper.  She was a kind prattling woman, and was known to have been a governess before her charms withdrew the gastronomic Gottfried Baerens from his devotion to the well-served City club, where, as he exclaimed (ever turning fondly to his wife as he vocalized the compliment), he had found every necessity, every luxury, in life, ’as you cannot have dem out of London—­all save de female!’ Mrs. Baerens, a lady of Teutonic extraction, was distinguishable as of that sex; at least, she was not masculine.  She spoke with great respect of Lady Camper and her family, and seemed to agree in the General’s eulogies of Lady Camper’s constitution.  Still he thought she eyed him strangely.

One April morning the General received a letter with the Italian postmark.  Opening it with his usual calm and happy curiosity, he perceived that it was composed of pen-and-ink drawings.  And suddenly his heart sank like a scuttled ship.  He saw himself the victim of a caricature.

The first sketch had merely seemed picturesque, and he supposed it a clever play of fancy by some travelling friend, or perhaps an actual scene slightly exaggerated.  Even on reading, ’A distant view of the city of Wilsonople,’ he was only slightly enlightened.  His heart beat still with befitting regularity.  But the second and the third sketches betrayed the terrible hand.  The distant view of the city of Wilsonople was fair with glittering domes, which, in the succeeding near view, proved to have been soap-bubbles, for a place of extreme flatness, begirt with crazy old-fashioned fortifications, was shown; and in the third view, representing the interior, stood for sole place of habitation, a sentry-box.