Mr. Simeon Fenellan had written his opinion, that all these delegates of the different European nationalities were nothing other than dupes of a New-York Syndicate of American Humorists, not without an eye on the mainchance; and he was sure they would be set to debate publicly, before an audience of high-priced tickets, in the principal North American Cities, previous to the embarcation for Japan at San Francisco.  Mr. Fenellan eulogized the immense astuteness of Dr. Gannius in taking his daughter Delphica with him.  Dr. Gannius had singled forth poor Dr. Bouthoin for the object of his attacks; but Nesta was chiefly anxious to hear of Delphica’s proceedings; she was immensely interested in Delphica, and envied her; and the girl’s funny speculations over the play of Delphica’s divers arts upon the Greek, and upon the Russian, and upon the English curate Mr. Semhians, and upon M. Falarique—­set Gallically pluming and crowing out of an Alsace-Lorraine growl—­were clever.  Only, in such a letter, they were amazing.

Nataly received it at Campiglio, when about to start for an excursion down the Sarca Valley to Arco.  Her letter of reply was delayed.  One to Victor from Dudley Sowerby, awaited them, on their return.  ’Confirms Fredi,’ he said, showing it, and praising it as commendable, properly fervid.  She made pretence to read, she saw the words.

Her short beat of wings was over.  She had joined herself with Victor’s leap for a change, thirsting for the scenery of the white peaks in heaven, to enjoy through his enjoyment, if her own capacity was dead:  and she had found it revive, up to some recovery of her old songful readiness for invocations of pleasure.  Escape and beauty beckoned ahead; behind were the chains.  These two letters of the one fact plucked her back.  The chained body bore the fluttering spirit:  or it was the spirit in bonds, that dragged the body.  Both were abashed before the image of her girl.  Out of the riddle of her strange Nesta, one thing was clear:  she did not love the man:  and Nataly tasted gladness in that, from the cup of poisonous regrets at the thought.  Her girl’s heart would not be broken.  But if he so strongly loved her, as to hold to this engagement? . . .  It might then be worse.  She dropped a plumb-line into the young man, sounding him by what she knew of him and judged.  She had to revert to Nesta’s charm, for the assurance of his anchored attachment.

Her holiday took the burden of her trouble, and amid the beauty of a disenchanted scene, she resumed the London incubus.

‘You told him of her being at the Wells? in the neighbourhood, Victor?’

’Didn’t you know, my dear, the family-seat is Cronidge, two miles out from the Wells?—­and particularly pretty country.’

‘I had forgotten, if I ever heard.  You will not let him be in ignorance?’

’My dear love, you are pale about it.  This is a matter between men.  I write, thanking for the honour and so forth; and I appoint an interview; and I show him my tablets.  He must be told, necessarily.  Incidents of this kind come in their turn.  If Dudley does not account himself the luckiest young fellow in the kingdom, he’s not worthy of his good fortune.  I wish they were both here now, honeymooning among these peaks, seeing the crescent over one, as we did last night!’