‘For fear there might be mistakes, I thought it better to come myself,’ said Mr Glascock.  ‘You did not wish to see Sir Marmaduke?’

‘Certainly not Sir Marmaduke,’ said Trevelyan, with a look of anger that was almost grotesque.

‘And you thought it better that Mrs Trevelyan should not come.’

’Yes, I thought it better, but not from any feeling of anger towards her.  If I could welcome my wife here, Mr Glascock, without a risk of wrath on her part, I should be very happy to receive her.  I love my wife, Mr Glascock.  I love her dearly.  But there have been misfortunes.  Never mind.  There is no reason why I should trouble you with them.  Let us go in to breakfast.  After your drive you will have an appetite.’

Poor Mr Glascock was afraid to decline to sit down to the meal which was prepared for him.  He did mutter something about having already eaten, but Trevelyan put this aside with a wave of his hand as he led the way into a spacious room, in which had been set out a table with almost a sumptuous banquet.  The room was very bare and comfortless, having neither curtains nor matting, and containing not above half a dozen chairs.  But an effort had been made to give it an air of Italian luxury.  The windows were thrown open, down to the ground, and the table was decorated with fruits and three or four long-necked bottles.  Trevelyan waved with his hand towards an arm-chair, and Mr Glascock had no alternative but to seat himself.  He felt that he was sitting down to breakfast with a madman; but if he did not sit down, the madman might perhaps break out into madness.  Then Trevelyan went to the door and called aloud for Catarina.  ‘In these remote places,’ said he, ’one has to do without the civilisation of a bell.  Perhaps one gains as much in quiet as one loses in comfort.’  Then Catarina came with hot meats and fried potatoes, and Mr Glascock was compelled to help himself.

‘I am but a bad trencherman myself,’ said Trevelyan, ’but I shall lament my misfortune doubly if that should interfere with your appetite.’  Then he got up and poured out wine into Mr Glascock’s glass.  ‘They tell me that it comes from the Baron’s vineyard,’ said Trevelyan, alluding to the wine-farm of Ricasoli, ’and that there is none better in Tuscany.  I never was myself a judge of the grape, but this to me is as palatable as any of the costlier French wines.  How grand a thing would wine really be, if it could make glad the heart of man.  How truly would one worship Bacchus if he could make one’s heart to rejoice.  But if a man have a real sorrow, wine will not wash it away, not though a man were drowned in it, as Clarence was.’