She had me pleading after this; but it took two or three visits and very liberal treatment before she would condescend to tell me anything.  Finally, however, she gave it as her opinion that Fra Palamone, whom I had been so short-sighted as to dismiss, was more likely to know of her whereabouts than any one; and that I had better beware of the Marchese Semifonte, a man well known to her.  She plainly told me that she thought next to nothing of my chances, and that the best thing I could do was to go back to England.  “You don’t understand our women, nor will you ever—­ you and the likes of you,” she said.  “They have more sound sense in their little fingers than your nation in its collected Parliament.  Do you imagine a girl like Virginia wants to be your lady?  What on earth should she do in such a place?  Lie on a couch and order menservants about?  Oh, preposterous!  What pleasures does Virginia know but those of bed and board and hoard?  She’ll be merry in the first, and hearty at the second, and passionate for filling the crock with gold pieces.  But your manners would freeze the heart out of her; and if you have more guineas than you can spend, where’s the joy of sweating to get ’em, or of hiding ’em under the flag-stones against a lean year?  No, no, she knew better than you, and did better.  A gentleman may play the beggar for a while, but sooner or later his own will have him—­and what’s Virginia to do then?  Do you dare,” she said sternly, “do you dare to blame her for what she has done?  She has done incredibly well; and if you in all the rest of your life can prove a tithe of her nobility, you will be a greater man than I have reason to believe you.”

“I cannot blame her, Miriam,” I said, “I love her too much.  I shall never rest until I find her.”  The tears stood in my eyes—­I was indeed humiliated; but my shame, though bitter, was not without fruit.

Shortly afterwards, in order to clear up the affairs of my inheritance, I presented myself before Sir John Macartney, the English Minister, at his weekly levee in the Palazzo C——.  A bluff, soldierly man, of Irish birth and English opinions, he received me with particular civility, in which curiosity may perhaps have played its part.  He deplored my loss of an excellent father, rejoiced in my gain of an excellent estate, hoped I should return to England, cry for King George, hunt the country, and keep a good head of game.  He alluded, as delicately as he could, to religious differences.  “I know very well that you’re no turncoat, Mr. Strelley,” he said; “no, dammy, your house is inveterate for the Pope.  But your father was never a Stuart’s man, and I hope you’ll follow him there.  You’ll stand apart—­’tis only natural—­but, curse me, let us have no Jesuit rogues in our women’s quarters—­hey?  No, no—­you must uphold the Protestant succession, Mr. Strelley, like your father before you.”