almost giddy as she alighted, and entered the
shop. But one circumstance had not escaped
either her observation or her comprehension:
the fact, namely, that her beauty and
elegance had attracted much attention from
the loungers at the club door. One man
especially had gazed at her, like one
enchanted, as her carriage whirled past.

She was looking at a bright glittering
heap of fans on the counter, turning them
over with a disdainful air, and pushing
them away one by one with the tips of her
gloves, when she became aware of a face
looking furtively in through the spacious
pane of the shop window. The face
disappeared, and its owner walked away.
Presently he repassed, glanced in again (when
he did so, Veronica's quick eye recognised
him as the man who had stared at her so
admiringly in the street), and finally stopped
and addressed Paul, who was standing in
sentinel fashion at the shop door.

To Veronica's surprise, Paul answered
him at once, touching his hat respectfully.
She hastily chose a couple of fans, bade
her maid pay for them and bring them to
the carriage, and went to the door, where
Paul was still so busily conversing with
the stranger that he was not aware of her
approach until she spoke to him.

At the sound of her voice he turned
hastily and the stranger took off his hat
and bowed profoundly.

He was a well-looking, slender man, of
about thirty. He had fine teeth, and
bright dark eyes, which latter, however,
seemed to elude yours like a picture badly
hung, on which you cannot get a good
light, shift and strive as you will. It was
not that he turned his glance aside either,
for he seemed to look boldly enough, at
whoever addressed him, but the glittering
eye could not be fathomed. He was
prematurely bald about the forehead, but the
back and sides of his head were sufficiently
well covered with dark waving locks, and
he wore a short beard and moustaches of
glossy black. His dress was of the latest
fashion, and, although perhaps slightly
brighter in colour than an insular eye
would deem fitting for masculine attire,
was well chosen and perfectly made. He
wore a glass in his eye, attached to a short
black ribbon. And when he bowed, the
glass fell and dangled across his waistcoat.

"A thousand pardons, madame," he
said, speaking in French but with a strong
Italian accent: "I formerly had the honour
of knowing Monsieur le Baron Gale, and
just recognised his servant."

Veronica bowed, with an easy hauteur,
which yet was not calculated to repulse
the speaker. So at least he thought, for
he ventured to press forward and offer the
support of his arm to assist Veronica into
her carriage. She touched it with the tips
of her fingers as she got in. Paul stood
holding the door open with a grave face.

"I was charmed to find that my good
friend Gale had returned to Italy," said
the gentleman, still standing bareheaded by
the side of the carriage after Veronica was
seated. "And," he added, "under such
delightful circumstances. Paul tells me
that he is in the Villa Chiari. I shall do
myself the honour—if I may hope for your
amiable permission—of paying my respects
to my good Gale, my homage to madame."

Veronica bowed, smiled very slightly,
murmured some inarticulate word, and
gave the signal to drive on, leaving the
stranger, hat in hand, on the pavement.
When she had driven some distance, she
asked Paul in English who that person was?

He was the Signor Cesare Barletti, dei
Principi Barletti; not the head of the
house; a younger brother. The Barletti
were a Neapolitan family. The Prince
Cesare had known Sir John at Naples;
Oh yes; that was quite true. And Sir
John had liked him to come and play
picquet or écarté with him when he was
laid up at his hotel, and could not go out.
He (Paul) certainly thought that Sir John
would like the prince to call and see him;
otherwise Paul would have taken good
care not to mention Sir John's present
address. The Principe Cesare de' Barletti,
was not a Florentine; miladi understood—
did she not?—that it was the renewal of
old Florentine "relations" which Sir John
objected to at present.

"Miladi" leaned back with an assumption
of indifference and inattention while
Paul spoke. But no syllable of what he
said was lost upon her.

Barletti! Cesare de' Barletti! This man,
then, was a cousin of her own! Her
mother's father had been dei Principi, of
the Princes Barletti.

Sir John knew and cared nothing about
Veronica's mother. He in all probability
had never heard Mrs. Levincourt's maiden
name. But Veronica knew it well, and had
nourished a secret pride in her Neapolitan
ancestry.

That the man who had accosted her
was her cousin, did not much matter. But
his intention of paying a visit to Villa
Chiari mattered a great deal. It offered