engaged him.  The life of the world on its round showed him miracles daily; he looked for them very often, but more frequently they thrust themselves upon him.  Sunrise now—­what an extraordinary thing!  He never ceased to be amazed at that.  The economy of the moon, too, so exquisitely adapted to the needs of mankind!  Nations, tongues (hardly to be explained by the sublime folly of a Babel), the reverence paid to elders, to women; the sense of law and justice in our kind:  in the leafy shades of Upcote in Oxfordshire, he had pondered these things during his lonely years of youth and adolescence—­had pondered, and in some cases already decided them upon the merits.  This was remarkably so in the matter of Betty Coy, as he will tell you for himself before long.  Meantime, lest I keep Dr. Lanfranchi too long upon the threshold of his own house, all I shall add to my picture of his pupil now is that he was the eldest son and third child of Squire Antony Strelley of Upcote, a Catholic, non-juring, recusant, stout old gentleman of Oxfordshire, and of Dame Mary, born Arundell, his wife; and that he was come to study the moral and civil law at this famous University of Padua, like many an Englishman of his condition before him.  He was twenty-one years of age, had as much money as was good for him and much more poetry than enough in his valise—­to say nothing of the germ of those notes from which he afterwards (long afterwards) compiled the ensuing memoirs.

Dr. Lanfranchi had not said “Accidente!” more than twice, nor kicked his door more than half a dozen times, before it was opened by a young and pretty lady, who held a lamp above her head.  She was, apparently, a very young and very pretty, rather little, lady, and was dressed with some care—­but not more than her person deserved—­in black and white.  Her dark hair, which was high upon her head, was crowned with a large tortoiseshell comb.  She held the lamp, as I say, above her as she curtseyed, smiling, in the way.  “Be very welcome, sir,” she said, “and be pleased to enter our house.”  It was charming to see how deftly she dipped without spilling the lamp-oil, charming to see her little white teeth as she smiled, her lustrous eyes shining in the light like large stars.  It was charming to see her there at all, for she was charming altogether—­in figure, in face and poise, in expression, which was that of a graceful child playing housewife; lastly, in the benevolence, curiosity and discretion which sat enthroned upon her smooth brow, like a bench of Lords Justices, or of Bishops, if you prefer it.  This was none other than Dr. Porfirio’s wife, as he then and there declared by grunts.  “Mia moglie—­a servirla,” he was understood to say; and pushed his way into his house without ceremony, while Mr. Strelley, with much, kissed the hand of his hostess.  The salute, received with composure, was rendered with a blush; for this, to be truthful, was the very first hand ever saluted by the young gentleman.  The fact says much for his inexperience and right instinct at once.