unappeased longing to dazzle, to surprise,
to overwhelm her old acquaintances with
her new grandeur. She even had a secret
hope that such county magnates as Lady
Alicia Renwick would receive her with the
consideration due to a Princess de' Barletti.
Lastly in the catalogue of motives for her
visit to Shipley Magna must be set down a
desire for any change that promised excitement.
She had been married to Cesare
five days, and was bored to death. As to
Prince Cesare, he was willing to go wheresoever
Veronica thought it good to go. He
would fain have entered into some of the
gaieties of the London season that was just
beginning, and have recompensed himself
for his enforced dullness during the first
weary weeks of his stay in England. But
he yielded readily to his bride's desire;
and, besides, he really had a strong feeling
that it would be but decent and becoming
on her part to present herself to her father.

Veronica, Princess Cesare de' Barletti,
was lying at full length on a broad squab
sofa in the best sitting-room that the Crown
could boast. Her husband sat opposite to
her, half buried in an easy chair, whence
he rose occasionally to look out of the window,
or to play with a small Spitz dog that
lay curled up on a cushion on the broad
window-sill. Veronica gave a quick,
impatient sigh, and turned uneasily.

"Anima mia," said Cesare. "What is
the matter?"

"Nothing! Faugh! How stuffy the
room is!"

"Shall I open the window?"

"Nonsense! Open the window with an
east wind blowing over the wolds right into
the room? You don't know the Shipley
climate as well as I do!"

"How delicious it must be at Naples
now!" observed Cesare, wistfully.

"I hope I may never see Naples again!
I hate it!"

"Oibò! Never see Naples again? You
don't mean it!"

"What a time that man is gone to
Shipley!"

"Is it far to your father's house?"

"I told you. Five English miles. It is
no distance. I could have walked there
and back in the time."

"It is a pity, cara mia, that you did not
take my advice and go yourself. I should
have been delighted to accompany you.
It would have been more becoming towards
your father."

"No, Cesare; it is not a pity. And you
do not understand."

"I can, in truth, see no reason why a
daughter should not pay her father the
respect of going to him in person.
Especially after such a long absence."

"I tell you, simpleton, that papa would
rather himself have the option of coming
here if he prefers it instead of my walking
in to the vicarage unexpectedly, and causing
a fuss and an esclandre, and—who knows,"
she added, more gloomily, "whether he
will choose to see me at all?"

"See you at all! Why should he not?
He—he will not be displeased at your
marriage with me, will he?"

"N—no. I do not fancy he will be
displeased at that!" returned Veronica, with a
half-compassionate glance at her bridegroom.
In truth Cesare was very far from
having any idea of the service his name
could do to Veronica. He was a poor
devil; she a wealthy widow. Per Bacco!
How many of his countrymen would jump
at such an alliance! Not to mention that
the lady was a young and beautiful woman
with whom he was passionately in love!

"Very well then, mio tesoro adorato,
then I maintain that it behoved us to go to
your father. As to a fuss—why of course
there would be some agreeable excitement
in seeing you once more in your own
home!" said Cesare, to whose imagination
a "fuss" that involved no personal exertion
on his own part was by no means a terrible
prospect. After a moment's silence, broken
only by the ill-tempered "yap" of the
sleepy little Spitz dog, whose ears he was
pulling, Cesare resumed: "What did you
say to your father, Veronica mia? You
would not let me see the note. I wished
to have added a line expressive of my
respect and desire to see him."

"That doesn't matter. You can say all
your pretty speeches vivâ voce."

The truth was that Veronica would have
been most unwilling that Cesare should see
her letter to her father. It was couched in
terms more like those of an enemy tired of
hostilities, and willing to make peace, than
such as would have befitted a penitent and
affectionate daughter. But it was not ill
calculated to produce the effect she desired
on the vicar. She had kept well before him
the facts of her princess-ship, of her wealth,
and of the brilliant social position which
(she was persuaded) was awaiting her. A
prodigal son, who should have returned in
rags and tatters, and been barked at by the
house-dog, would have had a much worse
chance with Mr. Levincourt than one who
should have appeared in such guise as to