They reached the Pra, skirted its right-hand boundary for some hundreds of yards, and came to the door of a tall, narrow, white house.  Upon this door the doctor kicked furiously until it was opened; then, with a malediction upon the oaf who snored behind it, up he blundered, three stairs at a time, Strelley after him whether or no; and stayed not in his rush towards the stars until he had reached the fourth-floor landing, where again he kicked at a door; and then, releasing his victim’s hand, took off hat and wig together and mopped his dripping pate, as he murmured, “Chaste Madonna, what a ramble!  What a stroll for the evening, powerful Mother of us all!” Such a stroll had never yet been taken by Mr. Francis Strelley of Upcote in his one-and-twenty years’ experience of legs; nor did he ever forget this manner of being haled into Italy, nor lose his feeling of extremely helpless youth in the presence of the doctor, his tutor and guardian.  But to suppose the business done by calculation of that remarkable man is to misapprehend him altogether.  Dr. Lanfranchi’s head worked, as his body did, by flashes.  He calculated nothing, but hit at everything; hit or miss, it might be—­but “Let’s to it and have done” was his battle-cry.

The lamp over the door of his apartment revealed him for the disorderly genius he was—­a huge, blotch-faced, tumble-bellied man, bullet-headed, bull-necked, and with flashing eyes.  Inordinate alike in appetite, mind and action, he was always suffering for his furies, and always making a fine recovery.  Just now he was at the last gasp for a breath, or so you would have said to look at him.  But not so; his exertions were really his stimulant.  Presently he would eat and drink consumedly, drench himself with snuff, and then spend half the night with his books, preparing for to-morrow’s lecture.  Of this sort was Dr. Porfirio Lanfranchi, who had more authority over the wild students of Padua than the Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor and Senate put together.

The same lamp played upon the comely and ingenuous face, upon the striking presence of Mr. Strelley, and showed him a good-looking, good-tempered, sanguine young man of an appearance something less than his age.  He was tall and supple, wore his own fair hair tied with a ribbon, was blue-eyed and bright-lipped, and had a notable chin—­firm, square at the jaw, and coming sharply to a point.  He looked you straight in the face—­such was his habit—­but by no means arrogantly or with defiance; seriously rather, gravely and courteously, as if to ask, “Do I take your precise meaning to be—?” Such a look was too earnest for mere good manners; he was serious; there was no laughter in him, though he was not of a melancholy sort.  He pondered the world and its vagaries and examined them, as they presented themselves in each case, upon the merits.  This, which was, I think, his strongest characteristic, should show that he lacked the humorous sense; and he did.  He had no time to laugh; wondering