tripping forward upon a pair of small, very accurately shod feet, taking in with a sharp glance every alteration that had been made in the disposition of the rooms since her last visit. She always called Lady Frances "my Lady," – at first because, like the majority of foreigners, she believed it to be the customary English mode of address; afterward, because it had become a habit to do so. "And the Colonel – the devoted brother – he is out? Yes? That is well too. Then now we will have a nice chat. Ah, he is gone to the Hotel Britannia. Tiens! tiens! Then he is in the train of the new beauty. Oh, do not deny it. I have seen him, in fact – seen him with my two eyes, – they are small, but they are very sharp; indeed, for the matter of that, he is large enough, n'est pas? He is not alone either; all Venice seems to be en délire. Young de Fallet, Comte Carolan, Mrs Forsyth's son – they are all in a string – they rave day and night of her charms. And, after all, it is not so much to be wondered at. Let us be candid. She is a beauty, but a beauty hors ligne. You have seen her, my Lady? No?"
"Yes, I believe I have seen her," Lady Frances said rather stiffly. "I have promised in any case to call on her," she added.
"So. She will like that, though she is not by way of liking ladies. She knows more gentlemen than ladies."
"Why does she not know ladies? Is there anything – anything odd about her?" Lady Frances asked with some quickness.
"Odd? No, there is nothing odd, – not exactly to say odd. She did not like her husband, but there is nothing so very odd in that; he was probably not much to be liked. She does not take the trouble to talk to ladies; she likes everything to come to her without her having the trouble to go to it. She likes clever men; they tell her what is going on without her having to read the newspapers. They talk to her about politics; then she feels herself clever, which she is not at all, not in the least. People call her a Russian spy, but that is all nonsense."
Lady Frances felt unconsciously relieved at this information. With all her sisterly devotion, she did not look upon the Colonel as, strictly speaking, belonging to the category of clever men, nor likely to minister much to any one's desire for political enlightenment.
"They say now that she means to marry again; that she is looking about amongst her prétendants for the right man." Madame Facchino went on carelessly, taking up a book which lay on the table beside her, and opening it to look at the title-page. "She says, too, I am told, that she will not marry an Englishman – that she has had enough of that nationality; that she must try another next time. That, too, one may believe if one likes. All I can say is, if she took my advice she would. They say that I am a perfect Anglophile, that I have forsworn my own nationality, and it is true. I talk the English, I read it, I even try to think in it, but that is difficult, I must own. This is new, is it not? Ouida. Ah! how I love cette chère Madame Ouida. She is so beautiful, so true, so strong! You have read it, my Lady? Ah! it belongs to the Colonel. Well, then, that is all the better, for I will not ask you to lend it to me, as I had meant to do. Now I must go; I only just ran in to say, do you receive to-night? and if so, may I come about ten? Come to dinner? Ah no, I will not really come to
