It watched the progress of intimacy between Lady Hilda and the ruined lord of Palestrina, and knew "all about it,"—knew a vast deal more than the persons concerned, of course; it always does, or what would be the use of talking?
Gossiping over its bonbons and tea in the many pleasant houses in which the south wintering northern swallows nestle, it knew that he and she had been in love years and years before; the family would not let her marry him because he was so poor; it was the discovery of his letters to her that had killed poor old rich Vorarlberg; he and her brother had fought in the Bois—indeed!—oh yes, it was hushed up at the time, but it was quite true, and he had shot her brother in the shoulder; the surgeon who had attended the wounded man had told the physician who had attended the sister-in-law of the cousin of the most intimate friend of the lady who had vouched for this. There could not be better authority. But there never was anything against her?—oh dear me, no, never anything—everybody said this very warmly, because everybody had been,
